Equilibrium
by Gollum's Fish
Summary: Darkness stirs in Fangorn's depths, and when Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli go to investigate, events unravel that spiral out of their hands...
1. Default Chapter

Equilibrium

****

Disclaimer – I own non of the characters in this fanfiction, as much as I wish I did – still wishing that is pointless… Any original characters that arise in here – Wild Men, for instance, do belong to me, though Celdan was certainly better than they are…

Hi everyone! Firstly, most gracious thanks to all of the reviewers of Here We Are – without your calls for this sequel, there – well – wouldn't be a sequel ^^. Which brings me to my second point: this is longer, darker, and less restricted than Here We Are was in Helm's Deep, as we follow the characters through several different locations, spanning from the Plains of Rohan to the depths of Mirkwood. The character range is greater also, introducing a few faces that all of you will know and not necessarily like, as well as a lot more of one in particular who we saw in Equilibrium's predecessor for a brief time … though that is all I shall say concerning them ^^

Profuse apologies to all Fanfiction.net readers for the solid block of writing that occurred with Here We Are – it was split in chapters, but I kind of rushed through the post…

Anyway, that's plenty enough rambling for now – there are Sindarin translations at the end of each chapter where they occur, and I have taken the liberty of giving Aragorn Andúril earlier than in the films – I don't know why, I just did ^^. So! Let us commence with the tale – please read it, enjoy is, and review it!

Friendship is the builder of bridges, bridges which span over mountain range and sea, and as long as that bridge still stands between us, I will cross it and find you, be you in the darkest pit or the highest tower.

Chapter One - Swords and Swallows

The sun beat down upon their backs with all of its intensity, just as it should do during the summer. A tranquil, cloudless day, perfect in almost every way. Swallows chirruped out their hunting cries as they reeled over-head after the midges, their tails dipping into the myriad of deep blue, then diving past the horizon to skim the grass. Perfect little lives, in their own perfect little worlds, with their own perfect little importance's - catch flies, feed young, fledge young, fly south, start again next year. That was it. That was all that they were required to do, in that perfect little world of the swallow.

Legolas watched them intently as they performed their dance on the blue stage. Why was he not a swallow? Life would have been so much simpler if he had been a swallow - all he would need bother about were sparrow hawks and getting south before the c2hill of winter. He would not have to be bothered about that dark Shadow that loomed over in the east where he knew no birds dwelt. What was that Shadow to a swallow save a darker patch of sky?

'Legolas!' hissed Gimli from behind his back. 'Concentrate on controlling the horse, will you?'

Legolas cast the Dwarf an amused glance. He knew full well that he hated riding: that was quite plain from his intense grip on the Elf's sides when they quickened pace, or if Arod dropped slightly as he negotiated a dip in the earth.

'Whatever for? All Arod has to do is follow the other horses: he only starts if you pass wind or something of the sort.'

Gimli scowled at the rather crude mockery - something that he had never expected an Elf to say, especially a prince - and was just about to make a retorting comment when Arod dropped leisurely down a bank. The Dwarf clasped Legolas' sides again, hard, to which Legolas gave a brief cry of pain. Gimli took his hands away as though Legolas was a venomous snake in his surprise.

'Legolas, I'm sorry, I-'

'-Forget it, Gimli my friend,' replied the Elf in a pain-restrained voice. 'Just please don't forget to place your clumsy Dwarvish hand on my hip rather than - there. Again.'

'I'm sorry.'

'You have no need to be. I am not angry with you, so stop apologising!'

He could not find it in his heart to be angry with the Dwarf for misplacing his hand - he was always sorry, and Legolas could see the distress in his eyes whenever Gimli caused him pain by grasping his wound, which was still not fully healed. The poison had made it mend much slower than an injury to an Elven body should. 

'And when I said: "pass wind", I meant when you spoke.'

'I bet you did,' grumbled Gimli in return, to which Legolas chuckled mischievously.

'Take it as you will, my friend,' Legolas continued with a raised brow. 'Take it as you will.'

They rode in silence for a time, part of the lengthy procession that headed for Edoras from Isengard. All that had arisen from their audience with the traitor Saruman had been a Palantír - which Gandalf now kept charge of at the front of the line, joined by Aragorn and Théoden King -and Merry and Pippin. As far as Legolas and Gimli were concerned, this was all that they could have hoped for: it was not long since passed that they had believed the pair to be dead. The fact that they had not in fact seen Saruman mattered not to them, and now Pippin sat in front of Aragorn, and Merry before Gandalf, both sound asleep… Clearly "guarding" the broken gateway while basking in the sun and smoking pipe weed was an arduous task.

Legolas had selected to ride a little way back from his friends - Aragorn and the King, he had heard, were talking of matters that he did not think he ought to hear, and nor did he want to. Yes, space was the best thing that he could offer his friend at the moment. And so they rode along at the back of those of the Third Marshal's men.

Gimli heaved a heavy sigh into the air. It was such a depressed sound that Legolas said: 'What grieves you, my friend?'

'I just want a few puffs on my pipe, that's all.'

'Sorry, Gimli, but you cannot smoke while we ride: I would be most upset if your pipe were to be rammed down your throat should you bump into my back - and it stinks, which, in my opinion, is an even more important reason for you not to do it.'

'You know not what you are missing, Legolas Greenleaf.'

'And I have no desire to find out, you may be averred of that! It is not something that I favour, or indeed look upon without a frown. It catches in my throat and you cannot see for the smoke.

'The drinking of wine, on the other hand, is something that I would join you in without a moments' delay.'

'Wine? Pah!' came Gimli's response. 'Wine is for the women. Give me some quality malt beer and I shall be content as an Elf in a cherry grove during the spring.'

Legolas' eyes unfocused briefly as he thought of the cherry groves at home. Rows of beautiful slender trees, spectacular when in bloom. How wonderful it had been to sit under their beautiful boughs and read or doze in the gentle sun, to wake up and find oneself littered with pale petals. It was his turn to emit a small sigh of sadness.

'Now why are you sighing?'

'I was just wondering whether I shall ever see my father's cherry groves again.'

'Of course you will, lad. We shall all go home, come the end of this war - and I promise you this: when we return to our homelands you can be assured that my tally shall be the greater of the two.'

The Elf openly laughed out at this. 'Oh yes? We shall see, Gimli my Dwarvish friend, exactly who is the victor out of this. Arrows against axes. An interesting result shall arise from this.'

'Seeing as axes won last time, I doubt that the outcome shall be any different.'

'Do not be so confidant.'

Arod halted suddenly at a slight tug on the reigns from his master. Legolas sat still, his face turned down to Arod's mane. Then his head snapped to the side to look into the depths of Fangorn forest, which lay to their right.

Gimli watched his friends' face worriedly. He had felt Legolas tense just then - when Legolas did this, it was frequently something to pay attention to.

'What is it?' he hissed. 'What is it you see?'

'Hold on.' That was the only response that the Dwarf got before Arod launched forward, Gimli giving a short cry of surprise, his grip intensifying on the Elf's hip as though he felt that if he let go he would die.

They streaked past the other riders, receiving questioning glances as they did so - mind you, this was not an infrequent occurrence: none of them had ever seen either an Elf or Dwarf before the Three Hunters had entered Rohan, and it was with wonder that they watched the odd pair. One as old as the Age and looking not a day over twenty, and the other appearing as though he had just emerged from the earth.

Arod came to a steady trot besides Brego, the mount of the latter beast turning to his friend with a confused frown upon his brow.

'What is wrong, mellon nin?'

'I felt something,' the Elf answered in a lowered, hurried voice. 'There is something in the trees, though I cannot say what, exactly.'

Aragorn locked eyes with Legolas', searching them. There was something definitely wrong, and Aragorn remembered the conversation they had had while at Helm's Deep.

'If you do not know what it is, then surely there is no huge threat?' Éomer interjected. He had ridden up in between Aragorn and his King to join in with this conversation.

Legolas fixed his blue eyes with the green ones of the Third Marshal, stormy sky meeting flaming grass. He had heard that undertone in the Man's voice, and he liked it not. They had never got on since that first meeting on the plains.

'Are you questioning my judgement, Lord Éomer?' That was quietly said, but it did not prevent the other from straightening his back, jaw set.

'I am merely saying that if you have not seen anything then why should there be a cause for concern?'

'You need to see a little further than just past your nose, Lord Éomer.'

Éomer's face became rapt with anger, and he would have struck out if Aragorn had not urged Brego further forward to drive them apart, giving Legolas a warning glance.

'I apologise for my nephew's behaviour towards the delegate of the Elves,' said Théoden.

'And I apologise for the behaviour of the delegate of the Elves towards your nephew,' replied Aragorn, which he received a glare from Legolas for, though he ignored it.

'Where did you first feel it, Legolas?' Gandalf had joined them, feeling that it would be wise to draw the attention of both Elf and Man away from each other before all turned ill.

'Back there,' came the reply, accompanied by a flick of the Elf's head as an indication.

'Orcs?'

Legolas shook his head at this. 'No. I would know if it was Orcs-'

'-And how is that?' Éomer cut in.

'-Because Orcs are my brethren, no matter how much I despise the fact, and all Elves can sense the presence of them.'

This took Éomer back. He knew what Orcs looked like: vile, deformed beasts - how could it be that they were akin to the fair creature that sat before him? He could even feel sympathy welling inside him. At that point he resolved that he would no longer pass any disagreeable comments at the Elf, no matter how great the temptation - but that did not mean that he liked him, far from it; he resented anyone threatening to shoot him between the eyes with an arrow, whether they were a prince or no.

'What do you propose, Lord Aragorn?' Théoden did not know whether to take such things from the Elf seriously or not. He had no experience of them at all, though he had heard of Elves having the preternatural ability to predict happenings and to delve into the future, which made them - in his eyes - dangerous … though he could not see any visible danger in this one. So he deemed it best to ask someone who had a sound knowledge of them.

Aragorn still looked at Legolas, and all he could think of were his words during the Elf's near-fatal fever… "You never listen to me."

'I think that a scouting party is required - just to make sure that there is nothing.'

Legolas gave Aragorn a slight, brief smile, a tiny, barely visible dip of his head in thanks, which Aragorn returned.

'Very well,' was Théoden's response. ' Éomer, select some of your men for a scouting party. We shall head back to Edoras when you have made camp tonight.'

'If I may, my king Théoden, I should like to accompany the party, with Legolas and Gimli also.'

'If that is your wish then you have my consent - you may lead the men, rather than Éomer … I have some issues at Edoras that I require him to accompany me in the dealing of.'


	2. Chapter Two All in good Time

Chapter Two - All in Good Time  
  
Yet another foe fell at his feet with their companions; they were quickly joined by another, and then another, as Legolas performed his deadly dance, slicing at his enemies as they tried - and failed - to bring him down. There was quite a pile of them now about the campfire.  
  
Aragorn sucked on the end of his pipe, observing the Elf as he fought with the volunteers who had agreed to pretend to be Orcs for him to practice on.  
  
'He's doing well,' commented Gimli, who had seated himself next to Aragorn on the fallen tree, likewise smoking his pipe. 'You can hardly tell anything was ever wrong.'  
  
'But you can tell,' replied Aragorn. 'He won't be very happy when this is finished.'  
  
Sure enough, Legolas ended the mock fight with Éomer's men and declared it over, shaking the hand of each of them as they rose and moved off to rest and massage their bruises. He threw the carved branches he had been using to practice his knife-craft with into the fire, whose flames leapt up greedily to engulf the fresh fuel with orange tongues.  
  
He crossed the camp to his companions and, instead of going to sit on the log, sat on the ground and leant back against it instead, chewing his cheek as he often did when agitated, his breathing coming a little faster than usual thanks to the recent physical exertion - and possibly something else.  
  
'You could have used those again,' Aragorn suggested.  
  
'I could have,' came the terse reply, 'but I can't now, can I, because I threw them in the fire.'  
  
Since they had left Helm's Deep, Legolas had been very easy to get on the wrong side of, which resulted in many people avoiding him at all costs. Aragorn understood what was wrong - he was testy because his sickness had weakened his muscles and his knife-skills had not been the same since; mind you, it had only been twelve days since he had first picked up the wooden versions of his weapons after his lengthy fever.  
  
On the other hand, Elves had the preternatural ability to heal much faster than any human, and the fact that the effects of the poison were still visible in Legolas' face as well as in his physical abilities was of some concern to Aragorn. His eyes held the appearance of one who   
had failed to sleep properly for a month. His hair was dishevelled as he simply had not bothered to put it back into the usual braids which kept it from his face. The belt about his waist was somewhat tightened by a few notches. Understandable, really, that he was so frequently in such a sour mood.  
  
'I'm tired of using pieces of wood, anyway - it just doesn't feel right.'  
  
This conversation had been had before - about six times before, actually, and Aragorn was fair fed up of it. He knew exactly what Legolas was pushing for, and waited to hear the next words…  
  
'If you would only let me use my knives again-' There they were, just the same as the last six times they had been uttered.  
  
'-If I would only let you use your knives again, someone could get hurt, just as I said last time. Think about it, Legolas: you have used those weapons for millennia. No matter how experienced all of the people here are, they will never match your level. Elves have a totally different style of fighting, and, as you are the only Elf here, you would not find a suitable enough challenge.' There. He had said it. Hopefully that would quash any wont of going against anyone with real weapons.  
  
Legolas sighed, a heavy frown over his brow … but the frown lifted, as Legolas turned to Aragorn, his face lit by what Aragorn had the deep trepidation of suspecting to be a child of Legolas' inspiration. Children of Legolas' inspiration normally involved him and in their younger years had resulted in a great deal of trouble and usually some form of injury or other.  
  
'You were raised by Elves,' the Prince began brightly. 'Thus you were taught to fight by Elves, and so you fight like an Elf-'  
  
'-No, Legolas.'  
  
'Aragorn, you know how desperate I am,' he pleaded. 'Just one fight, between us, you with your sword and I with my knives. Your skill will prevent you from sustaining any injury and I shall have "a suitable challenge". Aragorn. Please.'  
  
The appeal in that last word forced him to look into those age-old eyes that peered so imploringly up at him. One part of Aragorn stayed with the absolutely-no-way notion … but the other part was beginning to see the logic in the Elf's words, and was being gradually won over by the pitiful expression on his friend's face.  
  
When the pair had been younger and Aragorn had spent time with Legolas in his father's kingdom, the King had warned him frequently against his "son's round-eyed begging stare and to remain, no matter what he says, impervious to it." On the countless occasions when that same stare had been used on him, Aragorn had always relented to it, and it had always ended up with them getting into some form of trouble or other.  
  
And now he cursed himself as he rose to fetch his sword, ignoring the quietly triumphant grin on Legolas' face. Indeed it was almost good to see such an expression - since the fever it had been a rare occasion when the Elf had smiled.  
  
Legolas unsheathed his knives for the first time in what felt like an age. The polished steel blades threw the firelight into a warped rendition of the campfire, somehow mocking the fire with the coldness of their glimmering plains, throwing the raw reds and oranges of the flames into sharp contrast with the darkness of the night which had thrown its black diamond-studded cape about them in the past half hour. The tengwar inscriptions burned and cast their own shadows, as if the runes themselves were ablaze in the metal.  
  
The bone hilts gradually warmed in his hands, fitting perfectly into his grip. It felt as though they had never been parted; but he heaved a sigh of sadness as he traced over a deep cleft that ran over the hilt of one of the knives, parting the intricate gold filigree, to him wholly ruining the knife altogether. It was the one that he had dropped when he had been stabbed. There was even some of his blood in the groove, which had stained the bone forever red. A lasting imprint on the memory of the bone … the stain of shed blood never fades.  
  
'Come on then, Legolas - let us see whether or not you are ready.'  
  
He clasped his blades firmly at Aragorn's call, and crossed with pure confidence over to where the Man stood before the campfire, precisely where Legolas himself had fought with Éomer's men, sword held before him at the ready.  
  
A small crowd had accumulated about the fire to observe this match of ability and strength, curious to see how either of the two faired after a duel with weapons so keen.  
  
They circled for a time, both with their blades poised before themselves, eyes fixed on the weapon of the other, careful, delicate footsteps which were hardly audible over the crackle of the fire, taking them to different angles.  
  
Aragorn was first to make a move. Andúril flashed as it was swept in a graceful arc, singing as it sliced the air in two. But the song was abruptly stopped as the blade was met by a flash of white steel. Knife and sword clashed as Legolas barred the way.  
  
Aragorn made a hasty dive before the free knife of the Elf could come to his neck, and the two parted briefly before they came together again.  
  
Éomer and King Théoden stood beside Gimli - they had been intrigued about why the men were all heading this way. Seeing what was happening, Théoden asked: 'Have they an quarrel between themselves of such an intensity that they need to take it out with blades?'  
  
Gimli allowed himself a slight smile at this.  
  
'No, my Lord: Legolas felt that he was ready to go back to using real weapons, so Aragorn is testing him.'  
  
'This seems to be a very dangerous test,' commented Éomer, a fair brow raised as he watched Legolas block a side swing from Aragorn and somehow change position faster than his eye was able to trace.  
  
'They both know what they are doing,' answered Gimli, his voice ripe with confidence in his friends. 'Each has enough experience to match the skills of the other.'  
  
Aragorn deflected another sweeping action from Legolas' knife, only to have his blade suddenly caught between both of the Elf's as he clamped them together. This was the greatest test of their strength so far, Aragorn reasoned, for it was a fair struggle for him to keep his own sword from being thrown by the knives. He took this opportunity whilst they were locked like this to look at Legolas' face. There was strain their, small beads of sweat shimmering on his forehead like drops of dew. But there was also something else there, and the more Aragorn looked, the clearer it became: Legolas was pained by this. He could see it in his eyes, though they never looked into his own … that small amount of smoke that ever so slightly made the blue sky a little less clear, though his eyes still shone with burning intensity. Legolas was trying to hide it, Aragorn knew that, and he was doing rather a good job of it. In fact, he doubted that anyone else would notice it, it was so well veiled. But Aragorn knew Legolas like no other, and this cloak was too thin to him for him not to see through it.  
  
'Legolas, daro.'  
  
Legolas flashed his eyes to those of his friend. Aragorn knew that his side pained him, he could see it in his face. The expression of Aragorn's eyes was soft, but not pitying, for which Legolas was thankful. They were more understanding than anything else. But he was not willing to comply - his pride wanted to continue, just to see who won this. There was no point in that, he concluded: Aragorn would win … his arms were tiring, and doing so fast. A slight frown crossed his features.  
  
'Legolas. Please.'  
  
'Tîr, Estel. Hannon le.'  
  
Legolas allowed his arms to slack, and Aragorn followed the motion. They stepped back from each other and bowed in the Elven fashion. Just as Legolas turned to leave, he felt a heavy hand rest upon his shoulder, and cast the fingers that clasped it with such fondness an expressionless glance.  
  
'You fought well, mellon nin - a great improvement from last time.'  
  
Legolas paused before placing his own hand upon that of his friend briefly. Then he walked away. He headed for the horses with the intention of spending some time with Arod, which he felt he had not done enough of. But no, he reasoned, he was doing this so that he had some time to calm down a little. He could feel shame in his heart for what had just happened. He was sure that he and his giving-up just then was going to be the joke of the camp, if it was not so already.  
  
Aragorn watched Legolas' retreating back and shook his head to himself sadly. If only Legolas would admit to himself that he was not weak, all would be well. As it was, Legolas refused to see the simple fact that it would take time for his body to get back to prime fighting condition after the severe stress it had undergone so very recently. Muscle had to build back up, fat had to be restored. Aragorn had noticed that Legolas was helping his body along with an assortment of herbal teas that he was concocting for himself as his own medicine; which was perfectly fine, for Aragorn knew that they worked, as he had used some of them himself.  
  
'My Lord Aragorn?'  
  
The Ranger turned at being addressed, to see Éomer standing behind him, his sword at his thigh and helmet beneath his arm.  
  
'The King wishes to head back to Edoras, now. The men have been notified that you are leading them; in fact, they seemed rather happy about this…'  
  
Aragorn chuckled. 'At least they are willing.'  
  
'Yes, well – take care. We shall expect your return to be…?'  
  
'Three days should be ample.'  
  
'Right.' Éomer turned on his heal, heading for his horse, which had been brought over. 'He fights well,' the younger man called back to Aragorn. The Ranger snorted at this.  
  
'Yes, he does: it would be wonderful if he accepted it.'  
  
Éomer's brow crinkled in confusion briefly, before he gave a short bow and disappeared to the other end of the camp.  
  
  
TRANSLATIONS  
  
Tîr - right  
Mellon nin - my friend  
Daro - stop  
  
Estel, for all who do not know, is Aragorn's elven name, and means 'Hope'.  



	3. Chapter Three Whisperings in the Night

Hail to all reviewers and readers, and many thanks for your wonderful reviews *bows to all, stooping too low and consequently falling flat on her face.*  
  
Ok, this is the chapter where things start to happen ... you will find out what that means all in good time, and please forgive me for the slowness of the posting thingy; I'm one of those people who writes in wondrous leaps and bounds of speed – and then trips and breaks her nose. This one is nice and long, and there are a few more of those on the way, as well as some shorter ones – very inconsistent, but they're chapters, so it doesn't really matter, just as long as the content is good ^^. There is more, and I'm off on a posting spree, which will hopefully work, giving this a grand total of eleven chapters to date, with more on the way...  
  
Enough of that, it's time to get on with the story. No prologue, I don't believe in them. Oh – can I just say to any whom are reading my work for the first time that I strongly suggest reading the prequel to this – Here we are – before this one, otherwise some elements of this particular tale will not make sense. It is possible to read this one on its own, it's just that passing comments and references will seem odd otherwise... __________________________________________________________________________  
  
Chapter Three - Whisperings in the Night  
  
Aragorn and Gimli prepared themselves for sleep beside the fire. They would be safe, they knew, as there was going to be a sentry of twelve men surrounding the camp; there was no real need for being uncomfortable that night for fear of having to flee.  
  
Gimli straightened after making what he deemed a fairly reasonable pillow from his elven cloak and looked about him. There were Aragorn's things on the other side of the fire, and the odd tent of the band of Éomer's men who had been selected to go on this small scouting party stood about them. Something was not quite right, though... After some thought he realised that Legolas' gear was missing from the scene.  
  
'Hi! Legolas!'  
  
The Elf turned at being called, observing the Dwarf and quietly waiting to see what he wanted. He held in his hands his bow and quiver, nothing more, and was positioned beneath the boughs of an ancient, gnarled oak.  
  
'What are you doing over there?'  
  
'Going to bed.' With that, Legolas flung his quiver across his shoulders, and bent his knees in a cat-like fashion. He made a single leap and grabbed a branch some ten feet from the ground. He agilely hooked his leg over the bulk of the branch and stood upon it. Gathering a little momentum from the live wood he stood on by pushing his feet down rhythmically, he leapt once more, so that he was now stationed some twenty feet up in the air, sat on what looked to Gimli to be a particularly narrow branch.  
  
'You cannot be serious, laddie,' stated the Dwarf in pure disbelief.  
  
Legolas merely smiled down at him, now sitting with his back pressed against the trunk of the tree, the quiver buckled so that it hung from the branch.  
  
'Gimli,' began the Elf, 'every night we spend upon the ground, I loathe. I hate sleeping on the ground. For me, being in a tree is far better - and safer - than being on the ground.'  
  
'Safer? How can it be safer?' He turned to Aragorn for support, whom had just arrived back from a talk with the captain Éomer had selected to accompany them. The ranger gave him an amused smile.  
  
'I know not, my friend,' came Aragorn's reply. 'He tried to get me to see that side of sleeping in trees many years ago-' Legolas gave a humoured snort at this '-and that experience of spending a week in the healing chambers of the Mirkwood King persuaded me that the ground is a far better option.'  
  
Legolas openly laughed at this, a sound which rang through the small clearing like clear, sharp music.  
  
'Do not blame me, Estel, for your poor sense of balance! And what, exactly, are you implying about my father's healing chambers?'  
  
'Oh, there is nothing wrong with them at all, mellon nin: save the fact that - and I speak from experience - it is much better to be a visitor than an occupant, as your father's head healer can be merciless when it comes to painful injuries.'  
  
A far-off look came to the Elf's eyes as he reminisced about home and the things that they had got up to all of those years ago that had made both of their adars frequently furious with them. 'Still,' Legolas continued, coming back to the present, 'trees are far better for those that have a sense of balance.'  
  
'But how can you be even remotely comfortable on a twig that is too narrow for even a sparrow to perch on? Creatures with two legs belong on the ground, I say, and those with wings in the trees.'  
  
'Ah, Gimli my Dwarven friend,' said the Elf, shuffling a little and pulling up his hood, closing his eyes to the world as he rested his head against the bark. 'That is a very contradictory statement: birds have wings, true, but they also have two legs. Bats have wings, yet they dwell in your beloved caves. By what you say, you ought to be in the open, sleeping on the ground when you are home, because the bat needs the cave. Or should the bat sleep on the ground also, for they too have two legs. Perhaps they should be in the trees, as they have wings like birds. So who is in the wrong? The bat, or the Dwarf? The bird, or the Elf?'  
  
Gimli stood gaping soundlessly for a minute, knowing not how to respond to this, until he finished the debate with: 'Shut up, Pointy-ear.'  
  
There was little that the others could see of the Elf's countenance - which was only the tip of his nose and a small part of his lips. But even with that tiny section of his face visible to the world, it was plain to see that he smiled.  
  
The travelling cloak curled about his legs, echoing all movements that he made. Despite the fact that it did this, no sound was emitted which was likely to betray him to any that cared to listen. And there would be none to listen by the time his men had finished...  
  
Leaving Orthanc had been the hardest bit to accomplish - most of the main exits were flooded with the water of the Isen which those moronic Ents had let loose. All save one, down which Saruman had sent him with the order to lead a company of Wild Men whom had not disbanded after the fall of Isengard and the defeat at Helm's Deep like the rest of their lice-infested kin. No, they had stayed, holding true to their pledge of loyalty to the wizard that had been made through the oath of blood.  
  
And now he paced as he waited for them to do their bloody work in the forest; one thing that he would credit them with was their ability to skulk without being seen through trees, an unbelievably good asset. He was confident that those louts of Éomer would not be aware of their deaths as they approached in the night. Only an Elf would pick up on their movements ... which was why he worried, because none of the scouts knew where the damn Elf was. They had spotted him briefly earlier in the night, but then he had disappeared. Gríma had seen the sharpness of the Elf's hearing at Edoras, and he was not ashamed to say that he fretted about him. In order to achieve what he had been sent to do, the Elf must not be there - at least, he must not be in a state that enabled him to tamper...  
  
He turned his head at the sound of an approaching man. It was the one he had appointed to lead the others as they performed their murderous acts; Gol his name was, or something equally ridiculous. He stood silently before Gríma, fumbling like a moron with the bloodied tip of his knife.  
  
'And?'  
  
At the impatience of the word, the man straightened.  
  
'All of the look-outs are slain. We have taken five hostage, as you wanted.'  
  
'You are sure of this?'  
  
A grin spread over the dirty face. He needed no words to know that it was true.  
  
'You left the three alone?'  
  
The face of the other fell at these words.  
  
'We left two alone; there were not three. No Elf.'  
  
Gríma sighed with exasperation at this, and commanded Gol to tell his men to stay away from the clearing while he worked. This was something that he wished to do in private, and as he stalked through the trees for those few minutes, he had the perfect opportunity to reflect over all that had happened to him, right from his being kicked out of Edoras to leading this rabble of filth that Saruman liked to call his allies.  
  
He came to the edge of the clearing, just out of the range of the dying light of the campfire. Yes, there they were, sound asleep, two of the causes of his suffering ... particularly that Aragorn. Saruman wanted them all alive. That was not going to happen.  
  
He entered the camp now, the fall of his feet making no noise as he crossed the grassy earth to where the fire's embers cast their flickering shadows across two faces engulfed in deep sleep. Soon to become a very deep sleep from which neither would awaken.  
  
He drew the shallow leather pouch from his pocket with gloved hands and undid the string. There it was, sitting at the bottom of the pouch, lining it with its fine powder. The fastest poison that he had ever developed sat in his hand, looking like a fine golden dust in the firelight, innocent and quite beautiful to his eye.  
  
He had come to Aragorn, the very bane of his life. Just to look upon his sleeping form made him sneer and wish to kick out. But no, that would be unwise. Better to just do it while he slept, this thief of his freedom and future.  
  
He bent down over the other man, the pouch extending out over his face. He wanted to see the fear and pain in his eyes as Aragorn's muscles went into intense spasms, wanted to hear his spine snap as his entire back convulsed. His hand began to tip...  
  
It was the creak of a bow being bent that made him stop dead in his actions. Damn. He turned his inclined head a little so that he could see the archer. That small movement was enough for the cold, sharp tip of the arrowhead to cut into the skin of his temple. Deeming it unwise to move his head any further, Gríma allowed his eyes to find the face of the one who had ruined his plans - not that he needed the confirmation of his eyes to know whom it was.  
  
Legolas pinned him with his deep blue eyes, cold despite the fires' heated glow.  
  
'Well. There you are,' sneered Gríma. 'We were wondering where you had disappeared to.'  
  
'Did you not think that the best place to find an Elf in a forest is in the trees? Take back your arm!' The words were softly spoken, little more than a whisper, yet they maintained a threat that dared him to disobey.  
  
Gríma grinned broadly. 'Do you know what this is, that hovers over the face of your friend?'  
  
He boldly straightened himself, pulling away from the arrow a little, his hand still extended, and the arrow keenly following his movement.  
  
Legolas breathed in deeply through his nose. His brow knotted briefly before he replied: 'It is Dragon's-tooth root ground with Holinghail milk.'  
  
Gríma nodded at this. 'So. Are you not going to lower your bow?'  
  
The Elf was caught in a dilemma that he could not resolve. He knew exactly what the two different plants did individually. When added together, he was sure that they would bring about certain death, for he knew that Dragon's- Tooth root when mixed with another toxin could bring about whole different manners of death. But he knew not how it would kill when paired with Holinghail milk, as that particular plant grew in the South and he had had few encounters with it.  
  
If he lowered his bow as the Man wished him to, Aragorn would more likely than not get the powder in his face. His skin would absorb it instantly. He would die with certainty within five minutes, and there was no way it could be washed off.  
  
If he shot Wormtongue, Aragorn would die, as the snivelling rat had the foul powder situated so that, either way, it would land on his skin. They were in a stalemate, a deadlock in which neither could move for fear of the actions of the other.  
  
Here was an interesting situation, as far as Gríma was concerned. There stood the Elf, unable to decide what to do, and here he was, with the Elf in his complete power.  
  
As he looked upon the face of the Elf before him, his lip curled as he took in the altered features of the immortal.  
  
'So,' he began softly, 'it appears that you received my gift.' When the Elf failed to react, he added: 'I wondered what it would do to Elves; from the look of your face, it did not do you much good.'  
  
Legolas inwardly snarled at the sneering mockery, but kept his tongue still and face carefully impassive.  
  
'Tell me,' Gríma continued to jibe, 'did it hurt-' he placed such emphasise upon the adjective that Legolas was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his face emotionless '-did the pain make you scream, O Elven Prince?'  
  
He could feel his left arm begin to tremble slightly with the bow's weight, and he also felt the panic begin to grasp his heart. His muscles were still considerably wasted in his arm and shoulder from the poison's effect which had ripped though his body with the deadly efficiency of a warg's teeth. He cursed himself fervently for not drawing a knife instead. He had not counted upon being caught in this type of situation. Damn this worm!  
  
'Elven Prince,' Gríma repeated to himself, revelling in this moment when he could openly mock the Elf and not get killed for it. 'King Thranduil's only Elven Princeling; you must be very close to your father, being his only son.'  
  
There was something about the way the words were uttered which filled him with cold dread. They chilled, just as the poison had done in its first stage.  
  
'Tell me,' said the worm, leaning forward a little and locking eyes with Legolas. 'How is your father?'  
  
The feigned concern made the hair rise at the nape of Legolas' neck, and he gave a slight shift of unease.  
  
There it was - what he had been aiming for all this time - that slight shift of the Elf's back foot. Such a minuscule movement that told so much. He had found it at last, the weak point in the armour, the place where he could slip his knife into and twist it for the best effect. He needed to push the knife deeper - much deeper - to gain what he wanted.  
  
'My father is perfectly fine, thank you.'  
  
Gríma picked up on the insincerity of the politeness of the words, as he knew he was intended. He raised a hairless brow as he replied with a quiet, questioning and horribly knowing tone which chilled Legolas to the core: 'Really?'  
  
Legolas felt his checks flush, and the slight tremble became a visible shake; as to whether it was from muscle fatigue or pure rage he knew not, neither did he care.  
  
'How came you, slithering snake, to become such a gutless wretch?' His voice shook despite himself, his anger was so intense. Control was slipping away like an evil day into an eviller still night. 'Why so much spite towards us? You alone manufactured your fate, not we. It was your choice to be moronic and side with the wizard who uses you for what you really are: a snivelling, weak little man of absolutely no use to the world save to carry out the foul doings of others more powerful than yourself.'  
  
Aragorn's eyes fluttered open as he heard this exchange, this war of words that took place above his very head.  
  
'That letter you sent back to your father was very touching, may I say.' He had chosen to ignore what the Elf had said for the moment, though it rubbed against his nerves. 'It almost brought a tear to my eye when Saruman read it out; I wonder ... do you think that your father will appreciate the extra gift I put in it for him?' At that he began to laugh, high and cold into the night, his watery eyes glittering with mirth at his words.  
  
The arrow screamed through the air as the bow was flung to the side - it had not even hit the ground when Wormtongue found his wrist was being bent back. It was a lightening-speed reaction that Gríma had expected but not anticipated; he had thought that there would be no way that the Elf could get to him before he could loose the powder over the sleeping man below him. Plainly not, for Legolas had his wrist in an iron grip as he somehow managed to draw the string on the bag with his fingers, even though both hands were occupied. He bent the limb almost to the point of breaking, until Gríma released both a cry into the night and the draw-string bag, which was kicked into the fire by Legolas' boot.  
  
A fist connected briefly with his nose as the restraint on his wrist was lifted, and he was thrown to the ground by the sheer force of the impact. Clearly the strength of the damnable being had not been completely destroyed by his poison.  
  
His mouth was filling with blood from his nose even as the toe of the Elf's boot jarred into his ribs with merciless might. There was nothing that he could do to counter this attack save try to cover his face with his forearms to act as a feeble shield against the pure wrath of the other.  
  
Aragorn could do naught but stare at his companion as he lashed out at the figure on the ground that whimpered like a beaten dog as each kick landed upon his ribs - always his ribs. There was blood all over the shirt of Wormtongue, blood on the ground, on his face, the surest sign of a broken nose. It was all happening too fast for Aragorn to cope with ... and they offered no mercy when the knife was pressed against his throat from behind, his arm being bent back painfully.  
  
The hate fuelled his blows, made them come harder. Such hate as he had never felt in all his millennia. It consumed him terrifyingly, engulfing all sense of the pain he caused the wretch at his feet. He cared nothing for him, this filth that writhed like a beheaded slow-worm, pathetic in his fruitless struggles. He afforded an Orc more mercy than this, and he was fully aware of the fact as he drew back his foot for the eighth time.  
  
He was on the ground before he knew what had happened, the weight of one of the Wild Men pinning him down, the wind out of his lungs. There was the tang of blood in his mouth, and an agony in his left arm that screamed against the pressure of the combined weight of both Elf and Man - but he cared not for it, for what his other sense offered him swallowed his complete attention.  
  
Gimli and Aragorn struggled against their captors, each with knives at their throats, each bound, each as helpless as de-clawed, de-toothed kittens.  
  
The weight atop of him lifted as the Man rose to his feet - he did not remain so, however, for Legolas lashed out with his feet again and struck him at the back of the knee, and Legolas himself abruptly stood, about fifteen other Wild Men beginning to press in in a wide arch.  
  
He picked up his bow - and hesitated. The hesitation allowed two of the Men to charge at him, and his only defence was to clout them round the back of their heads with the piece of wood, holding the bow in his right hand as pain shot up and down his left too intensely for it to take the weapon. The attack had been clumsy, uncoordinated, somewhat like that of an Orc ... but Orcs were incredibly dangerous in numbers, especially when they went for an injured quarry.  
  
Their companions hung back, those with bows not thinking to use them. It was only the frenzied 'KILL HIM!' from Wormtongue that made them move towards him again, some drawing blades, some bows, some picking up random pieces of wood from the earth.  
  
He had to take this from a realistic point of view: there was one of him, sixteen of them. He had not enough arrows to take them all down, and his bow-arm had attained some hurt or other that he knew without even analysing it would render him useless with the Lady's gift. He had knives, but again only one arm would be able to carry through with using such weapons.  
  
He turned his eyes despairingly to his friends' faces. His eyes came to those of Aragorn, and he saw the instruction in them. It was unmistakable in its meaning, yet every sense told him to stay for the sake of his companions. He could not - would not - leave them to their fates. But the side of him that still thought rationally told him to bolt, and to do it now, even as Aragorn shouted the words to him.  
  
Fear for the Elf welled in the two as they watched the ever-closing circle. Legolas had injured himself, Aragorn plainly saw, for he held his left arm up close to his chest, his fingers loose and face paling. Yet he still brandished his bow threateningly, daring any to challenge him again. It was a hopeless situation, though, no matter how hard Legolas wished to resist it, and the pair knew it. Wormtongue had issued the order of death to him, and both knew with a sickening certainty that the Wild Men were only too willing to comply.  
  
Aragorn fixed his gaze firmly with that of Legolas as he looked over to them, desperate plea in his eyes, his fair face knotted with indecision. "Go," he instructed the Elf without words. "Get out while you can." There was the Elven stubbornness which refused to relinquish in Legolas' face, but Aragorn would not allow that to win. He vociferated the words into the night air, clear and strong.  
  
He did it. Legolas' cloak flew out behind him as he ran into the darkness of the trees, but not without calling to them that he would find them. Ten of the Wild Men followed, happy at having a chase before the kill - the ultimate sport for them, while their fellows fetched some of the horses of the doubtlessly dead members of the Riddermark. One of the horses was recognisable as being Arod, who went with about as much will as an eagle into the cage of a songbird.  
  
'Nai tiruvantel ar varyuvantel i Valar tielyanna nu vilya, mellon nin.' He uttered the small blessing quietly as he watched the Wild Men notch arrows to strings and give chase, six horsemen plunging after them. Legolas was fast and sure of foot, but these too were Men borne of the forest, hunters by trade and nature.  
  
***  
  
Legolas hared through the trees, hardly daring to believe what he had just done. It felt like the deepest treachery to him, to leave his friends in their plight. He would go back for them, he swore to the Valar that he would.  
  
An arrow embedded itself inches from his head in a tree trunk as he ran past the huge living statue. A sharp change of direction in an attempt to throw the archers a little caused a few curses behind him. The alarming thing was that they were not too far behind him - not far at all.  
  
The thunder of hooves sounded behind him, crazed cries from riders echoing nightmarishly through the forest, baying for blood as the wolf does after the deer.  
  
He cleared a fallen tree with no problem, the leap a simple action for him, landing lightly on the other side. At least that would slow them a bit - but he was mistaken, for horses followed closely behind.  
  
He skidded to a halt with a startled cry as his way was unexpectedly bared by a horse and rider who sprang out before him, the horse rearing in alarm. The rider brandished a sword, giving a triumphant cry to the air, and he spurred his reluctant grey steed to bring Legolas' death.  
  
'Ai! Daro, Arod!' He held out his good hand to the horse in a commanding fashion. 'Daro, mellon nin!'  
  
Arod stopped sharply at his master's instruction, causing his mount to tumble from his back, a sickening crunch as he landed headfirst depicting that his neck had broken.  
  
Legolas ran to his horse, taking the reign with his good hand and struggling into the saddle, which turned out to be a near impossible act to carry through with a broken arm.  
  
'Noro lim, Arod.' He needed not to shout the words to his horse - he knew he would comprehend the meaning just as well in softer speech as he would in a yelled command, and, sure enough, Arod instantly took flight through the trees, arrows raining in at them from an alarming amount of angles.  
  
He knew not where he went. He did know how to get back to the campsite though - the churned ground was a fairly conspicuous indication as to which direction that lay in. He knew with certainty that there would be none at the camp if he were to return - and that was a large "if". As good a steed as Arod was, he was not as swift as one of the Mearas, and it would be one of the Mearas that he would require to out-run the other horses; doubtless they were of Arod's stock. His injury prevented him from felling a few Wild Men with arrows, and the pain was becoming very pronounced with the jolts over the uneven ground, so much so that he saw spots of light dance in his vision. By the Valar, not again...  
  
They drew up alongside the edge of a cliff, the sound of rushing water reaching him above the pound of hooves and the thrum of his blood in his ears. Some fifty feet it was to the raging river below, which churned angrily over rapids as if the whole world had wronged it.  
  
There was a narrower point in the gully that he aimed for, and he rode hard along the edge; Arod would be able to take the leap, he was confident of that. An Elf could also easily take the jump - but not a Man. That would at least lessen the numbers of his pursuers considerably.  
  
An arrow hit his back with such power that it unseated him from the saddle, throwing his body to the ground where he rolled with the fall ... until he rolled no longer, and plunged down past the level of the ground.  
***  
  
TRANSLATIONS  
  
Nai tiruvantel ar varyuvantel i Valar tielyanna nu vilya, mellon nin. – May the Valar protect you on your journey under the sky, my friend. Mellon nin – My friend Ai! Daro! – Oh! Stop! Noro lim – Ride fast  
  
*Chuckles evilly* Can he survive having a hole in his back? Can he survive a fifty-foot drop? Is he even alive? And what of Aragorn and Gimli? See? I said this was the one where things started to happen: the pleasant drabble about birds and sunny skies is OVER, my friends! Chapter Four – Tethered Souls is hopefully here *crosses fingers and prays to the Valar*. Keep reading, and reviews would be beautiful! Hannon le! 


	4. Chapter Four Tethered Souls

Well, here's number four for you all – read it, enjoy it, and review it, please! It would be great if you could...  
  
This is centred on Aragorn and Gimli, just so's you know ... but I shall tell you no more than that ^^.  
  
OK – let the telling COMMENCE! *It has probably been brought to the attention of several of you that I am slightly dappy – I can't help it: blame my Mum for dropping me on my head as a baby or - something...*  
  
Chapter Four - Tethered Souls  
  
Aragorn watched where the horsemen had disappeared to intently. They would return empty-handed, he knew they would. Only an Elf could catch another Elf, and Legolas was definitely a trial to defeat in a forest. So he stood with quiet confidence, just waiting.  
  
He had guards, but they now stood consorting between themselves, ignoring him and Gimli completely. Were they under his management, he would have disciplined them for it. Still, it mattered not. All that mattered at the moment was the return of the riders with nothing to show for their exploits in the trees.  
  
'He'll be fine, lad.' Gimli stood defiantly straight beside him despite his bound hands which were twisted behind his back.  
  
'He has a broken arm, Gimli,' came Aragorn's response in a worried tone. 'That renders a bow and quiver of arrows useless.'  
  
'You don't know that for certain-'  
  
'Yes, I do. You saw the way he held it loosely.'  
  
'Hm. He has had worse than a broken bone,' was Gimli's gruff reply. That was true. 'The poor laddie isn't having a very good fortnight, is he?'  
  
Aragorn snorted at this. "No," he thought, "he damn well isn't."  
  
'He'll be fine,' Gimli repeated, more to himself than to the Ranger beside him. 'He'll come back.'  
  
'That is a foolish sentiment for one to hold when one's friend runs hurt and alone with Wild Men on his rat-like tail.' Gríma had skulked out of the shadows to join them it seemed, for he stood leering at them, a grin openly occupying his face.  
  
'The only thing rat-like about here is you,' the Dwarf spat back maliciously.  
  
'Hold your tongue!'  
  
Gimli made to fire something back at the human, but stopped as Aragorn bade him gently yet firmly: 'Quiet, Gimli, my friend.'  
  
'Ah, yes,' said Gríma with a spiteful tone. 'The leader of the rabble. O great commander of two - or one, should I say? Dear me, whatever will you do without that Elven filth to speak with? Plainly he gave you the only remotely intelligent conversation out of your two companions - I dare say a Dwarf has little to say of an intellectual level.'  
  
Gimli wisely ignored this, acknowledging it as being an attempt to provoke some angered reaction from him. He tried hard to think like an Elf would in such a situation to keep calm - but how would an Elf think at such words as these? He had heard those last words that Gríma had said to Legolas, and had watched the Elf lose his control. It was like perceiving an avalanche; previously so tranquil was the mountainside of snow ... but it took the smallest thing to make the snow tumble, and Legolas' snow had fallen in terrible, devastating torrents. Wormtongue had been the cause of such a cascade, and, as was usual with an avalanche, the cause was often taken down with the snow. In fact, Gimli doubted not what Legolas' intention had been. Had he not been intervened and his will been carried out, he was sure that Wormtongue would not be standing before them now.  
  
'Legolas will come back.'  
  
'I like your confidence, Aragorn son of Arathorn,' came the silky reply. 'It shall be enjoyable to see it crushed when my men return with your friend's corpse.'  
  
Aragorn did not reply to this. He heard horses' hooves in the distance in the trees, and felt his gut knot with sudden dread. The voices that accompanied the thud of hooves were too cheerful, too light for his liking.  
  
'It shall be enjoyable to see you proven wrong, Master Worm.'  
  
Gríma shot Gimli a contemptuous snarl at that comment, just as the riders made their entrance into the clearing. There were fifteen, not sixteen as had set out, and one of them lead Arod along by the reign, the stallion plunging and kicking, snorting into the cool night air. But there was no corpse with them as Wormtongue had promised there would be - which clearly infuriated him, as he bellowed: 'Where is the Elf?'  
  
'He killed Gol-'  
  
'I am not interested in whether he killed Gol or not - Gol was a moron! WHERE IS THE ELF?!'  
  
'-So I killed him,' the other finished, ignoring the insult to his captain from the other, a gleam in his eye.  
  
'It cannot be,' Gimli breathed.  
  
'I wish to see evidence,' declared Wormtongue, 'and as you have no body, you had better have a very good substitute.'  
  
'How about this-' he drew from his belt one of the white knives. 'The Elf dropped it when he fell from his horse-'  
  
'-That does not prove that he is dead!'  
  
'It does when he rolled off of a cliff with an arrow between his shoulders.'  
  
Wormtongue turned back to Aragorn and Gimli, pure triumph etched across his sickly face, and said with the most casual tone he could muster: 'It appears that the Elf will not be returning as you thought.'  
  
Aragorn hardly heard what was said. How could it be? It could not be - but he knew that it was. There was no lie in the eyes of the Wild Men. He felt as though he had no stomach. He could not breathe. He was aware that Gimli had sunken to his knees, finding his legs unable to support him in his grief, could hear him gasp with sobs. But at that moment in time, he was unable to cope with the sorrow of another - he was too swallowed up in his own to even try. Such a sense of loss as he had never before felt, it bit into his very soul.  
  
Neither Man nor Dwarf resisted when their hands were bound before them and tethered to the saddle of one of the horses with a short rope each. As the Wild Men - headed by Wormtongue - set off, Aragorn and Gimli allowed their feet to take them wherever it was the whim of the horseman to go, paying no heed to the direction in which they travelled.  
  
They traversed the forest well into the day, and Aragorn and Gimli still maintained their silence. They offered no response to the various jibes and jeering comments made to them about their fallen companion. The words hurt, but the hurt inside was far deeper than any words could ever delve, and they refused to entertain their captors by rising to the remarks. To them, it was far more respectful to the forever-gone Legolas to honour him with their thoughts rather than to fight about him with these murderers.  
  
The day was endured under the relative shade of the trees - but even in the cooler shadows, the sweat still flowed. They were offered no water to quench their thirst, which was just as well, as both of them held the notion of spitting it back in the face of whomever gave them any - or even spitting without water. Both options appealed greatly.  
  
Legolas and Gimli had had plans for after the war; as their homes both lay in the North, they were going to travel back together. On the way, Gimli was prepared to stay in Fangorn Forest for a time if only Legolas would endure going to see the Glittering Caves with him. It was a pact that they had made to each other as they left Helm's Deep. Gimli had wanted to see the Elf's bright eyes fill with wonder, had wished to hear him admit to being wrong about those wondrous caves...  
  
'...And I would give gold to be excused, and double to be let out, if I strayed in!'  
  
'You have not seen, so I forgive your jest. But you speak like a fool. Do you think those halls are fair, where your King dwells under the hill in Mirkwood, and Dwarves helped in the making years ago? They are but hovels compared with the caverns I have seen here: immeasurable halls, filled with an everlasting music of water that tinkles into pools, as fair as Kheled- zâram in the starlight...'  
  
Gimli had launched into a speech about the Glittering Caves of Aglarond, which caused the Elf to seriously reconsider his words to the Dwarf, he was so impassioned about what he spoke of.  
  
'You move me, Gimli,' the Elf had said. 'I have never heard you speak like this before. Almost you make me regret that I have not seen these caves. Come! Let us make this bargain: if we both return safe out of the perils that await us, we will journey a while together. You shall visit Fangorn with me, and then I will come with you to see Helm's Deep.'  
  
It had not been the order of travel that Gimli had hoped for, but he considered himself lucky that Legolas had even suggested such a trip - he knew full well that the Elf did not like going underground at all, so he had consented to the proposal.  
  
But their journey together through peace would never happen. Not now, and that was an agonising realisation for Gimli to make.  
  
The first night's camp provided them with no sleep; it was none too comfortable being bound by the wrists to a post. But neither of them had a mind for sleeping anyway.  
  
'Gimli.' It was the first time that any speech had left Aragorn's lips for nigh on a day, and the Dwarf raised his head dully to it. 'We must try to escape.'  
  
The guards were slumped unconscious, propped up by leaning into each other back-to-back, leaving them free to converse if they wished to. Wormtongue occupied a tent at the opposite end of the camp. There was no risk of being over-heard, and, quite frankly, Aragorn cared not if they were.  
  
'Why? Where is the point, Aragorn? The Fellowship is well and truly destroyed - what purpose do we have left in this world?'  
  
'Something evil is afoot here, Gimli, that much is plain. Our purpose in this world is to inform Gandalf of it. And the Fellowship is not completely destroyed: there are Merry and Pippin, Gandalf, and you and I. I cannot be so sure about Frodo and Sam, but I hold good faith that they are alive.'  
  
Gimli gave a snort at this. 'Five out of nine to be sure of. That is not an impressive number, Aragorn.'  
  
'It will be even less impressive if it is reduced to three,' he hissed back. Grief had worn away at his patience. The only way he could prevent it from taking over his mind was to think of freedom once more and how it was to be attained.  
  
The Dwarf watched his human companion with hard eyes, scanning over Aragorn's equally hard face. He knew why it was that Aragorn had been sharp ... it was the very same reason that he bore pessimistic views on the condition of the scattered Fellowship. He was angry at their loss and remained so. Seeing his friends being dissipated across Middle-earth to unknown fates - which seemed, due to the recent event, to result more often than not in death - got to him deeply. He loved each and every one of them in turn, and had developed a particularly strong attachment to the fallen Elf and the Man before him.  
  
As far as he knew, he and Aragorn could be the only ones left out of the Nine Walkers. Perhaps Aragorn was all that he had left.  
  
'I am sorry, laddie.'  
  
The hard expression fell away, and a small, apologetic smile replaced it. 'I too am sorry, Gimli my friend. Come! Let us discuss how to escape!' 


	5. Chapter Five Faces of the Moon

Well, here's the fifth one – told you I was going on a posting spree! We will see exactly how far it goes... ________________________________________________________________  
  
Chapter Five - Faces of the Moon  
  
It was not even dawn when the four men came to get them to tie behind the horses for another days' walking. They grinned as they manhandled the pair to one of the horses, being non too gentle about the pressure of their grasp on their tired flesh. For they were tired now - the two nights of inadequate sleep were beginning to tell on them. Both had bags beneath their eyes and pale skin ... but their minds were primed.  
  
Aragorn was held by the shoulders by one of the Wild Men as his companion got the rope ready to bind to his wrists, which were now before him. There was no other pair of hands on him, and he watched the back of the other turn before he made his move.  
  
Gimli was being treated like-wise to himself, standing with - again - one man behind.  
  
'Now, Gimli!'  
  
Aragorn's skull snapped back into the face of his enemy with such force it made his head spin. But he had no time to worry about a little temporary dizziness, and Aragorn kicked the heel of his boot into the mans' shin as he bellowed in pain and clutched at his mouth - which frothed with blood, as Aragorn's head had hit and consequently broken his teeth.  
  
The Dwarf, being not tall enough to inflict injury like that, elbowed his guard in the groin with a mischievous twinkle in his brown eyes. The guard did not howl out with his agony as Aragorn's had done, but collapsed to the earth, red in the face and gasping like a fish out of water, clutching at the pain in his delicate area.  
  
Gimli laughed with glee at the damage he had inflicted on the Man, and instantly went to work doing exactly the same to the one whom had been preparing the rope.  
  
Aragorn brought his bound fists up to bash the surprised rope man in the jaw as he turned, delivering another kick to the shin. As he went down, Gimli gladly dealt a blow to the back of the head before he began to run after Aragorn from the camp.  
  
Somehow the air smelled sweeter as they made their escape into the trees, the scent of sap reaching their nostrils, filling both Man and Dwarf with an almost elven appreciation for the beauty of a forest during summer. The birds offered their songs to the air in force ... but they could not drown out the beat of hooves.  
  
Running with bound hands made them move clumsily, slow, allowing the horses to gain upon them, and the last thing Aragorn saw was Gimli being struck round the back of the head as something cracked across his own skull.  
  
***  
  
He had a headache. That was what made him come round - the pounding in his head. For one moment he had thought that it was the very hooves of the horses galloping over him. He realised that there were no horses running over his head; more like he was sat atop of one, his hands bound behind his back. He was unable to move his feet, as they were tied tightly with a rope that passed beneath the girth of the horse. That was a clever restraint, he admitted to himself. He doubted somewhat that the Wild Men had come up with that one.  
  
He turned his head round - with a huge protestation from the back of his neck - to observe Gimli, whom had been placed on the beast behind him. The poor Dwarf's face was full of rapt nerve. He was tied in a similar way to Aragorn, and it did nothing for his anxiety of horseback riding to be so restricted - he could not even grasp the saddle horn. It had been bad enough when he had ridden Arod with Legolas, but at least then he had had the Elf's waist to grasp.  
  
The light of day was waning, and with it that precious little hope that Aragorn had preserved after Legolas' death. Their guard was going to be more attentive after their failed attempt at freedom. Unless the whole company was struck by lightening - unlikely - then they had no hope left in the world.  
  
"There had certainly been something to send out a scouting party for," he thought with great animosity. He allowed himself to ponder with no real commitment about how Wormtongue had got out of Orthanc, more for something else to think about than the depressing thoughts that circled about his head rather than to satisfy his actual interest.  
  
They were entering a great basin in the land, judging by the gradually increasing gradient of the earth's slope. It had probably been filled by a great lake long ago, he thought, for there were great boulders far bigger than any horse lying carelessly about the place, randomly situated on the forest floor.  
  
The trees were no less dense here, however, so the company was constantly forced to weave between them, keeping careful eyes on the ground.  
  
So deep was he in his own thoughts that he received a shock when the trees parted suddenly to reveal an artificial clearing, into which they rode. It was obvious what the trees had been felled for. There was a large scorch in the centre where a fire had burned. The grass was trampled, and upon it lay the numerous carcasses of animals, bones bare from either the gnawing of teeth or of time in the summers' heat. The whole place held a stink to it that indicated to him that it had been used by Orcs, and they had left either only today or fairly recently.  
  
But it was to something at the opposite side of the clearing that Aragorn's attention was drawn: a great pit he could see, so pitch it appeared to swallow all daylight - which, admittedly, was not very strong.  
  
Gríma rode up beside him, and, following the line of vision of the other, gave a brief chuckle.  
  
'I hope you like it,' he said darkly. 'Being a Ranger of the North it should suit you perfectly.'  
  
Aragorn shot the little man a glare at that, but then offered his attention back to the hole.  
  
'We shall have no more imbecilic escape attempts from you, Ranger,' Gríma continued to hiss. 'I doubt if even an Elf could get out of there-' he cast a sidelong glance at Aragorn '-but, of course, there is no Elf here anymore, is there?'  
  
Aragorn refused to answer, but that did not mean that the words did not chafe at his soul.  
  
'Take them down!' As soon as he had barked the order, Gríma rode off to the other end of the clearing to direct the construction of his tent, leaving his followers to partially unbind their captives and walk them over. There were no hands on them this time: swords tips were pressed into their backs instead.  
  
Upon coming to the pit, both Man and Dwarf observed that it was a good fifteen feet deep: too deep even for two full-sized men to stand on shoulders and get out, which was doubtless a deliberate happening in the design of it.  
  
The bonds on their wrists were cut, and both instantly brought their limbs forward to where they should naturally be, stretching their shoulders, which clicked audibly with this new freedom.  
  
But the blades at their backs were pressed in harder, which caused them to wince.  
  
One of the Wild Men stood before them, a coil of rope in his hand. He tied one end to the stump of a tree before throwing the rest down into the darkness.  
  
'Go down,' he instructed them. Aragorn made to grasp the rope when the guard grabbed his shoulder in a grip that could have rivalled a dragon's.  
  
'No trying to escape,' he warned, flashing a set of blackened teeth at him and sending a wave of stench from his mouth over Aragorn, so strong that it nearly caused him to gag. But Aragorn resisted the urge, steeling his stomach against it. He gave a slow, contemptuous blink and shrugged the hand off before he made his ascent into the black, awaiting Gimli at the bottom.  
  
Night had cast its cloak over them in only a couple of hours after they had been placed in this earthen cell. The moon rode high in the sky, and her silver rays managing to delve even into this dank cavity in the earth. Aragorn was sat in the full beam of it, bathed in ghostly light. Gimli slept in the shadow where the moon did not yet touch. His grief had worn him out, and Aragorn hoped that he found solace in sleep that no word could give him during waking. As for Aragorn, he could not sleep, not even if he had wished to. His depressed thoughts plagued him too much for him to, and he had even stopped paying any heed to the guards' banter above their heads...  
  
'Don't be stupid,' the one named Hasnef scoffed. 'You can't get a pack of deers - it's a flock of deers. Like sheep, only different-'  
  
'Actually,' interjected Benthro, who was the youngest out of the five situated about the watch-fire, 'it's a herd - and they're not "deers", they're "deer."'  
  
'Don't blame me for the fact that I'm a bit off the mark tonight,' snapped Hasnef. 'Blame him-' he gestured to the pit, referring to Aragorn. He had been leaning over the lip of the earth to mock them and - to his surprise - had received a well-aimed rock hurled at his forehead.  
  
'As I was saying,' continued Grilden, whose terming it was that was being scrutinised by the others, a bite of impatience in his tone, 'I killed a whole her-'  
  
'Ssshh!'  
  
'Don't you dare hush me, Benthro!'  
  
'No, listen,' replied the other, his voice lowered as if he feared being overheard. 'I hear singing.'  
  
Intrigued by this, the others silenced themselves. At first they heard nothing, then the words entered their ears also.  
  
''Tis not in Westron,' said Benthro. ''Sounds like Elfish-'  
  
'"Elvish!"'  
  
'Shut up!'  
  
The words were clearer now, light and beautiful, yet strong and haunting they were, captivating in their soft tone that none of them had heard before in their lives...  
  
'Ai! Laurië lantar lassi súrinen, yéni únótimë ve rámar aldaron!'  
  
Some part of Aragorn that was not submerged in thought heard the song. He knew it, and knew it well, and he too began to sing it softly under his breath, though it never really registered with him what he was hearing or singing. He remained sat in the damp, still ignoring the Wild Men, still singing along absent-mindedly.  
  
'We have to go and hunt them out, whoever it is that sings,' suggested Grilden, somewhat reluctantly.  
  
'-Yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier mi oromardi lissi-miruvóreva-'  
  
'And who will look after the prisoners?'  
  
'What is there to look after? They can't get out, and we'd be betraying our orders if we didn't go out there.'  
  
'-andúnë pella, Vardo tellumar'  
  
'Fine - we split into two groups: Grilden and Benthro in one, myself, Mensel and Jesneth in the other,' announced Hasnef. He grabbed a piece of burning branch for a torch and headed off into the trees, the ones he had appointed to himself following him and the other group close behind, also carrying a torch and weapons.  
  
'-nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni ómaryo airetári-lírinen.'  
  
'Sí man i yulma nin enquantuva?' The voice had continued while they arranged themselves, and, unless their ears deceived them, it changed position when they were in the trees.  
  
'I don't like this,' Benthro frowned. 'It's too suspicious - we should go back for the others.'  
  
'And let them escape? I think not - go back if you are too afraid, boy!' '-An sí Tintallë Varda Oiolossëo-'  
  
'It's moving away!'  
  
In the danger of loosing their quarry, they pressed on, taking no record of where they went for when they decided to go back, just following the mystical voice...  
  
'-ve fanyar máryat Elentári ortanë, ar ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë; ar sindanóriello caita mornië i falmalinnar imbë met, ar hísië untúpa Calaciryo míri oialë.  
  
'Sí vanwa ná, Rómello vanwa, Valimar!  
  
'Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar. Nai elyë hiruva. Namárië!'  
  
Aragorn lifted his head to see a cloaked figure leaning over the lip of their enclosure again, and, as he looked up, there came a soft laugh from beneath the hood. He was fed up of this mockery, and grasped another rock. This time he would not aim to stun. The rock sailed through the air like an arrow, flying straight for the head of the offender. A hand snaked out in a lightening-speed reflex action, snatching the stone from before the face of the figure. Aragorn stared wide-eyed at the one who still held the failed missile before him.  
  
'I have played Death's game twice of late and beaten Him, mellon nin - I do not think He shall be so forgiving a third time round.'  
  
He could not believe his ears - surely it could not be true? But that did not prevent him from rising to his feet and saying in a disbelieving whisper that was surely audible in Mirkwood:  
  
'Legolas?'  
  
'Ssshh!'  
  
The head of the figure twisted from side to side, apparently checking to see if any were coming before he turned back to Aragorn. 'Hello.'  
  
TRANSLATIONS  
  
'Ai! Laurië lantar lassi súrinen,  
  
yéni únótimë ve rámar aldaron!  
  
Yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier  
  
mi oromardi lissi-miruvóreva  
  
andúnë pella, Vardo tellumar  
  
nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni  
  
ómaryo airetári-lírinen.  
  
Sí man i yulma nin enquantuva?  
  
An sí Tintallë Varda Oiolossëo  
  
ve fanyar máryat Elentári ortanë,  
  
ar ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë;  
  
ar sindanóriello caita mornië  
  
i falmalinnar imbë met, ar hísië  
  
untúpa Calaciryo míri oialë.  
  
Sí vanwa ná, Rómello vanwa, Valimar!  
  
'Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar.  
  
Nai elyë hiruva. Namárië!  
  
Ah! Like gold fall the leaves in the wind,  
  
Long years numberless as the wings of trees!  
  
The years have passed like swift draughts of the sweet mead in lofty halls beyond the West,  
  
beneath the blue vaults of Varda wherein the stars tremble in the song of her voice, holy and queenly.  
  
Who now shall refill the cup for me?  
  
For now the Kindler, Varda, the queen of the Stars,  
  
from Mount Everwhite has uplifted her hands like clouds,  
  
and all paths are drowned deep in shadow;  
  
and out of a grey country darkness lies on the foaming waves between us,  
  
and mist covers the jewels of Calacirya for ever.  
  
Now lost, lost to those from the East is Valimar! Farewell!  
  
Maybe thou shalt find Valimar. Maybe even thou shalt find it.  
  
Farewell!  
  
Mellon nin - My friend 


	6. Chapter Six The Turning of Tables

He he! Yet another one – I'm doing so well... Anyway, back to the matter at hand: the story!!  
  
_____________________________________________________________________  
  
Chapter Six - The Turning of Tables  
  
There was a soft thud as Legolas dropped nimbly down into their prison. He stood tall and proud, like the Elven Prince that he was, the hood thrown back and fair hair resting skew-whiff about his shoulders. The moonlight showed plainly that he gave Aragorn a true smile, and it was by this light that Aragorn scrutinised his friend.  
  
Legolas' face made him look perfectly healthy - it was not quite as thin as it had been when they had parted, and his eyes were bright, capturing the silver light in their depth.  
  
His skin's condition could not be truly seen in the blue-white light, but if Legolas was fuller of face and bright of eye, Aragorn could only assume that his skin was back to rights - apart from the numerous grazes over his face, which one would associate with one whom had taken a drastic fall.  
  
There was no vambrace on his right forearm - rather, it was on his left atop the other one, a hastily improvised kind of splint, Aragorn could see, and the belt was no longer at his waist but draped about his neck, serving as a sling in which his arm rested limply.  
  
Aragorn could not restrain himself as the flood of joy and relief washed over him, and he embraced the Elf in a tight, one-armed hug. Tears streamed from his eyes for this one that he had deemed lost forever, this one that he was so close to it felt like Legolas was not just a friend, but a brother.  
  
He pulled back finally, looking the Elf in the face.  
  
'They said that they - that you were dead-'  
  
'-He will be when I'm through with him!'  
  
'Good evening to you too, Gimli.' The smile that played across Legolas' mouth could be heard in his voice, and he turned to face the Dwarf as he came forward from the shadow.  
  
Gimli stopped in front of his tall companion, taking in all of the changes in the Elf, and then going off on a rant...  
  
'Have you even the slightest idea what you've put us through? Aragorn is not as bad as you are, you pointy-eared miscreant!  
  
'And then you turn up alive having cheated Death and Wild Men, and then, you foolhardy idiot, you jump down into this pit with us out of which there is no escape! I thought you Elves were wise! Clearly-'  
  
His sentence was cut short as Legolas pulled him into a close embrace. He stopped rebuking his friend then, and, instead, threw his arms about the other.  
  
'Bless you, laddie!' he said in a somewhat muffled voice, speaking into the other's stomach.  
  
'They told us that they shot you. In the back. And that you fell down a cliff. Tell me how it is that you stand before us.' Aragorn could not help but press the matter, and his need for this information urged him to draw Legolas' attention from his reunion with Gimli.  
  
Legolas pulled away from Gimli, and responded to Aragorn's query with a smile in the corner of his mouth.  
  
'Yes, they shot me in the back,' he said levelly. 'What they did not do was aim properly-' he scowled heavily at this, and reached behind his shoulder to draw from his empty sheath a broken arrow. He rotated it round his fingers nimbly, chewing on his cheek. 'Not into flesh, but right into my quiver, and through that until it hit my knife. Frankly, I have seen Elflings with better aim than that.'  
  
Aragorn chuckled at this. 'From your tone, mellon nin, I would say that you were disappointed with the archer as if you tutored him yourself!'  
  
Legolas cocked a brow at this.  
  
'As to the falling down the cliff part, they never actually checked to see whether or not I truly fell; I managed to grasp a sapling in the cliff-face before plummeting to my death. That is one time that I shall be eternally thankful for the arrogance of some of mankind.'  
  
'And back to my question,' Gimli broke in, 'how do you expect to get out of here with no rope? I shall be eternally cursing Elven stupidity if you have no good plan. You are no less trapped than we are! '  
  
'Correction, dear friend: Wormtongue was most inaccurate when he said that no Elf could jump out of this hole.'  
  
Aragorn and Gimli starred at him, eyes wide at what they had just heard.  
  
'I have tracked you for two days,' said the Elf, reading their thoughts. 'It took me nigh on six hours to find a good place to climb back up the rock face with my injury-' at this he cast dark look at his slung arm '-and when I was back on level ground I spent half an hour trying to strap up my arm.  
  
'After that I set off reading the tracks that you left behind, and caught up with you in the early hours of this morning.'  
  
'So,' said Gimli after a brief silence, 'what is the plan in your head?'  
  
'That we stack ourselves, basically - I atop of Aragorn's shoulders, and you climb up us and out of the hole.'  
  
'And then?'  
  
'And then Aragorn stands on my shoulders and jumps out.'  
  
'Just like that?'  
  
Legolas bowed at Gimli's cynical question.  
  
'Just like that.'  
  
Both turned to Aragorn as he chuckled openly. The Man shook his head, looking at Legolas' confused face.  
  
'Why do you laugh?' the Elven prince asked quietly.  
  
'Because I see now the Elf that once got us into trouble on numerous occasions sorting out escapes in exactly the same way that he used to,' the Ranger said simply. 'He has not shown his face for many a year, and now he stands here with us offering impossible ideas that are bound to work, just as he always used to. Welcome back.'  
  
A crooked smile touched the Elf's lips. 'I never left – you grew up, and my attitude had to do so with you.'  
  
Gimli watched this exchange with fascination; he had seen right from the outset that there was a long history between Aragorn and Legolas; this had been unmistakably clear at the Council of Elrond when he had defended the Ranger against Boromir's chiding words. But now he wondered what they had actually done together – he had heard brief snippets of stories, and when they had been in the Fellowship, either Aragorn or Legolas had accounted to the others some wild event which lay in their past; though that had been Aragorn more often than not, as Legolas had tended to stay very quiet during the original journey.  
  
He had heard them consorting between themselves during that time in Elvish – trying, in vain, to figure out what they spoke of, what inspired them to laugh as they sometimes had done. An unbreakable bond clearly lay between them, a bridge between two souls that neither war, distance and he did not doubt even death could shatter.  
  
Man and Elf began to position themselves at the wall of the cell, Aragorn with his feet firmly planted, hands pressed against the earth to make himself more steadfast. Legolas gave a brief countdown before he used his good arm resting on Aragorn's shoulder to act as a pivot, kicking off of the ground and swinging his legs up in one action so that his feet were on his friends' arms. This made Gimli wonder briefly as the Elf stood upright, perfectly balanced and walked over to the Man's shoulders as though he stepped on a road – but then, Legolas had been the one whilst they had traversed Caradhras that trod on fresh snow and not leaving so much as a footprint.  
  
Legolas looked down to the Dwarf from his lofty position, and gave him a flick of his head as an indication that he was to start climbing, to which the Dwarf gave a rather worried glance.  
  
'Don't worry about it, Gimli,' Legolas assured him. 'It is only a few feet.'  
  
'It is not that that bothers me,' came the reply. 'What if I hurt one of you – you are after all, Legolas, in a very delicate condition.'  
  
Aragorn grinned as he looked upwards at his Elven friends' face, seeing the scowl that he knew would be there. Legolas loathed that kind of wording when used against himself – though he was perfectly happy to use it on someone else, and Aragorn was forcefully reminded of his comment when he had arrived at Helm's Deep - admittedly rather dishevelled – to hear his friend's light mockery.  
  
'Just climb, will you?'  
  
Gimli did as he was bid, though it was a somewhat more awkward affair than when Legolas had done it. He hauled himself up via grabbing Aragorn's clothing and a great deal of heaving. Eventually he reached Aragorn's shoulders, and placed his feet where Legolas' were not, causing the Ranger to pass small grunts of discomfort as Gimli's heavy boots jostled for a position. But it was when he got to Legolas that he began to encounter the real problems. Even though the Elf masked it – and rather well – he was still injured in two places, and so treating him like a tree was going to be hugely difficult. He was also fretting about the Elf's balance: surely with Legolas being as light as he clearly was, he would never be able to support the Dwarf without toppling.  
  
Legolas had noticed this pause, and looked down at his friend with slight impatience. This was not a very comfortable position to be in, and he hardly thought that poor Aragorn beneath the two of them was having a good time.  
  
'What is it now?'  
  
'How can I get up on your shoulders? You'll over-balance or something-'  
  
'-Just allow me to bother about that – you get up there. Now.'  
  
There was a brief silence before: 'I can't. Not without hurting you.'  
  
Legolas sighed heavily, chewing his cheek. He suddenly lowered himself, sitting on his haunches, his hand against the dirt wall to hold himself steady. 'Get on my back,' he instructed. 'Do not argue with me,' he added before Gimli had the chance to utter a word of protestance.  
  
He did, placing his arms about Legolas' neck and allowing himself to hang, not daring to wrap his legs about the Elf's midriff lest he caused him pain.  
  
'Stay very still,' the Elf bid him from between clenched teeth. Gimli may have been shorter and stockier than he was, but that certainly did not mean that he was even slightly light.  
  
The hand left the dirt very slowly. Gimli felt the muscle beneath his hands and in the back under his weight tense tremendously, heard the breath stop ... and felt himself rising with deliberate slowness towards the top of the pit. The Elf had his good arm stretched out to the side to act as a balance as he carefully straightened his knees, emitting the occasional grunt of effort as he forced his muscles to act out this highly arduous task.  
  
His legs were straight, and they complained to him ... but not nearly as much as his side did. The strain had done his injury no favours at all, and it hurt considerably. He made a mental note not to tell Aragorn about this – all he would get from the human would be a lecture, and he was in no mind for that.  
  
He remained perfectly still for a moment, arm still extended. He thought about his balance, taking into account where his feet were, how the arches of them were situated on Aragorn's shoulders. He was some two feet from the wall.  
  
'Hold on, Gimli: when I tell you, you are to make your way up to my shoulders. I do not care how you do it, I just want you to get there ... bearing in mind, of course, that you will be some twelve feet taller than you originally were.'  
  
'Thank you for that,' came a sarcastic reply.  
  
'That is quite alright.'  
  
Legolas allowed his body to topple into the wall, his arm back before him – he felt Gimli's grip intensify with the action, but paid no heed to it as he made contact with the mud. He thanked the Gods that the Dwarf did not argue with his instruction as he became aware of Gimli's feet scrambling up his back, and he did not utter a sound when Gimli actually stood upright, even though his had a sizable quantity of his fair hair trapped under the soul of his boots. He knew how fretting Gimli was about hurting him, and the last thing he wanted was to alarm the Dwarf into moving to take his foot off: that could cause a topple, and though Legolas knew that he would be able to land without harm, he seriously doubted that his companion would be capable of doing the same.  
  
Gimli could see the grass now – his eyes were level with it, and he breathed in its sweet scent gratefully.  
  
'Gimli! Stop smelling the grass! Are there any guards?'  
  
Of course – he had forgotten about the other two, and, by the sound of Legolas' voice, they were not too comfortable under his weight. So he made a quick yet thorough scan of the surrounding area.  
  
'No,' he reported. 'No guards: there's none about.'  
  
He felt himself lower again. Surely they were not going back down after all of the hassle it had taken to get this high, were they?  
  
'What are you doing?' he hissed.  
  
'Tossing you,' came the answer, and Gimli could have sworn that he heard a mischievous undertone in the Elf's voice. But before he could react, he was propelled upwards, and was forced to throw his hands out to catch himself as he landed on the grass.  
  
Legolas leapt up, pushing Gimli to the surface and throwing his weight off of his shoulders before he leapt nimbly down, flexing his back and hearing it click in numerous places when his feet were back on the earth. Aragorn turned to him, likewise flexing.  
  
'Thank the Gods that we have one so lithe as you with us, Legolas.'  
  
The Elf merely grinned at this.  
  
'I have my uses.'  
  
'And now?'  
  
'You get up on my shoulders.'  
  
Aragorn shook his head slowly at this. He surely was not serious? Gimli, he was sure, had been bad enough for Legolas' side. His own weight was far greater than the Dwarf's.  
  
'Aragorn.'  
  
The Ranger turned his eyes to those of his friend. They held a quiet command in them as they looked at him.  
  
'Please.'  
  
Aragorn sighed and shook his head again. He knew what he was required to do when he got up there, and was none too happy about that, either. But he commenced with the climb all the same, trying as hard as he could to avoid Legolas' left side, and, as he stood finally on the sturdy shoulders, he was horribly aware of the discomfort this was causing his friend. It had been hardly noticeable when the Elf had been on his own shoulders – but Elves were naturally light, no matter how tall and strong they were. Aragorn, however, was not, and he knew this only too well.  
  
'You are sure about this, mellon nin?'  
  
Legolas looked up at this question, fighting to keep the discomfort from his face.  
  
'How else are we going to get the King of Gondor out if not via this method?'  
  
Aragorn passed his friend a brief, apprehensive smile before he bent his knees, feeling himself sink lower as the Elf did the same. And they both made their leaps at the same time, an act of perfect synchronicity that got Aragorn high enough to grab the lip of the pit and cling to it – but Legolas' scream had nearly made him drop. He knew it. He knew that all of this was set to be too much for him to take. But he also knew that Legolas would never forgive him if he did lower himself back in there again – so, with the help of the Dwarf, he hauled himself out, the cries of alarmed men reaching their ears. It was all going wrong.  
  
Legolas had not so much landed back down as crumpled in a mess, his eyes temporarily showing him little through the pain that had shot through the wound in his side. He swore to the Gods there and then that if it had reopened he was just going to kill himself now and have done. He felt horribly weakened, and, more potent than that, he felt furious with himself for being in such a condition.  
  
Was that a scream? Gríma sat bolt upright. He had not slept, thus it was no dream – something was happening. If that rabble of filth were scrapping he swore there would be blood to pay.  
  
He robed quickly, throwing open the tent flaps, ready to deal out the appropriate punishments – when he saw something that caused his heart to leap to his mouth. The Ranger and the Dwarf, both out of their hovel, and not a guard in sight! His own scream sheered through the night air, and men poured out from their tents, a mass of ants with a quest as he bellowed in his fits of pure rage.  
  
He could hear the shouts of Men – one in particular that he recognised as Wormtongue – and the anguished cries of Aragorn and Gimli as they leaned over the precipice. He turned his blue eyes up at them. They were both, he was pleased to see, wielding swords – not their own, but weapons were weapons.  
  
It was his turn to command.  
  
'Go.'  
  
'No! We cannot abandon you,' Aragorn took on his usual stubborn hardness, refusing to be pushed away.  
  
'Sí!'  
  
'NO!'  
  
'Then as the crown Prince of Mirkwood, I order you as your superior to leave and raise the alarm in Edoras!'  
  
There was something that neither Dwarf nor Man had ever thought they would hear from Legolas' mouth – he never used his rank against anyone; well, clearly until now. And the worst thing was that Aragorn knew that he could not disobey it. He was not Gondor's king yet.  
  
And so it was with heavy hearts and against their greater judgement that they ran to the other edge of the clearing, slaying the few ill-prepared men who tried to stop them as they reached the horses and cut their tethers, both taking the beast they were best accustomed to riding.  
  
Legolas heard the pound of the hooves as his companions loosed the stolen horses and galloped to freedom themselves. Just as long as they got back safely all would be well for them. They were going to be fine, and he could find comfort in that. What was going to happen to himself was a completely different matter, and he somewhat doubted that they were going to be lenient with him for setting their prisoners free.  
  
He remembered that he was still on the ground in the dirt, and righted his position as quickly as he could, though his side complained quite loudly to his senses about this – no matter what the physical pain was, he refused to allow his pride to be hurt.  
  
It was a few minutes before he heard: 'HOW IN THE NAME OF ILÚVATAR'S EARS DID THEY GET OUT?' That had been said by Wormtongue, he knew, and he could not help but chuckle softly to himself – the chuckle progressed to a full laugh, and he found it even more amusing when the whole camp went silent at the noise.  
  
Several heads popped into his view, Gríma Wormtongue's own there with horror written all over it. However, at the sight of Legolas, all of the Wild Men emitted shrieks of fear, and he heard several mentionings of 'ghosts' and 'back from the dead'. Only Wormtongue stayed, staring with a confused expression at the Elf below him, who had now stopped laughing, and was surveying the Man's face in return, his face now placid though slightly red form his mirth.  
  
'I am intrigued,' Gríma began in a steady voice, 'as to how you come to be here. Alive.'  
  
'Well,' Legolas replied in an equally calm yet mocking voice, leaning against the wall of his new prison, 'it's a long story, involving myself, your men, and an incompetent archer under your command.'  
  
'Why are you still alive? Why can't you just die?'  
  
'While you are here to annoy? No!'  
  
'I see. My orders were to bring back all of you alive, but, seeing as you have somewhat soiled that plan, I think we shall just be taking you on your own. You can die alone.'  
  
'I apologise,' Legolas said, an eyebrow raised, not at all bothered by the promise of his own miserable death, 'for "soiling" the plans of your puppet- master, but, as I saw it three nights ago, you had absolutely no intention of taking any of us back alive.'  
  
'That is of no concern of yours,' Gríma hissed, stung by the reminder of that failure which was still so very poignant in his mind. 'But all the same you shall pay dearly for what you have done.'  
  
'Perhaps,' said the Elf quietly, still evidently not willing to sway under the threat of the obvious pain that he had been promised and set to endure for however long his captor – seemingly Saruman – deemed appropriate. That was in the future, not at that moment in time, so Legolas viewed it from the perspective of, if it was not happening now, then he need not worry about it until it happened. He did not doubt for a second that it would occur, but there was just no point in fretting about it right now – he had enough to mull over without that.  
  
'And I am intrigued, Master of Deceit, about what is to happen now.'  
  
'Again, that is none of your concern,' Gríma replied, his mouth in a flat line. 'What will happen will happen, and you will go along with it, whether you choose to or no.'  
  
'So I can assume that I shall be meeting with the former White Wizard, can I?'  
  
Gríma was bored of this now, and moved away from the pit edge: he had no wish to exchange pointless banter with the Elf any longer – he had things to arrange.  
  
TRANSLATIONS  
  
Sí! – Now! Mellon nin – My friend 


	7. Chapter Seven Down

OK – I shall say it now: this chapter has a bit of nastiness in it, mild horror, to be a little more precise ... if you don't want to read it, you can skip to the next one if you wish...  
  
Chapter Seven – Down  
  
Both of his wrists were bound. This, he thought, was very unfair, with one of his arms being broken; naturally, Gríma had come up with that to prevent him from attempting escape as his companions had done, which meant that if he even tried to break away from the party, he would cause himself pain. It also meant that he had to keep a very close eye on the one leading him, just so that he could be prepared to leap forward with the rope should the Man decide to give it a jerk for entertainment. This had already happened, so Legolas deemed it wise to watch for any signs of mischief.  
  
Getting him out of that pit had been most interesting: at first, Gríma had tried to order three Wild Men to go down and get him. When they had refused, the Man had been forced to stick his head over the lip of the pit and say: 'This is terribly embarrassing, but will you climb up out of there yourself? Don't even consider drawing any weapons: you are covered from all angles.'  
  
Legolas had looked about the lip of the cell at that point, surveying the faces, and, more importantly, the arrowheads.  
  
'There's no point in having him,' Legolas commented dryly, indicating to the very Man who had tried and failed to fell him the other night. 'He could not hit a mountain straight if he were at the foot of it.'  
  
An ugly snarl masked the face of the insulted Man, and his aim became a little more precise at that comment.  
  
'Shut up! Climb!' A rope was tossed down, which Legolas eyed as though his whole situation was entirely the fault of the cord. He climbed, hauling himself up with his good arm and the line wrapped about his left leg, clamping it with his feet. When he reached the top, several strong hands grabbed his shoulders and dragged him to the ground, immediately stripping him of all weaponry, and Legolas glared daggers at the Wild Man who carried them away from their owner: even Aragorn was not permitted to touch his bow and knives.  
  
Now they were walking through the trees, Legolas wearing the most hateful expression Gríma had ever seen in his life, and it clearly intimidated the Wild Men, as not a single one of them would go near him or indeed look at him.  
  
Legolas turned his head to inspect what was going on behind him, and saw something that made his heart heavy. Five of Éomer's men, pale faced and bloodied, two of whom supported one of their companions who was barely conscious, far more pallid than the others. Legolas could sense approaching danger ... and he could also sense approaching death. Death frightened him more than anything else – he did not understand it, that was why. He was an immortal, and as such he never had to face such a thing, apart from on rare occasions. He was unnerved by it, and the fact that he had himself nearly given up to it not so long ago terrified him.  
  
One of the horsemen saw him watching them, and offered a wavering smile, which pained Legolas to see. He did not smile, but nodded his head respectfully to the other, who did the same. Legolas averted his eyes after that, no longer able to look upon the fair-haired human. Guilt writhed in his stomach like a basket of eels – if he had not persuaded Aragorn to go on this scouting trip none of this would have happened, and these noble men would still be free...  
  
The company halted, and Legolas found Gríma standing beside him, looking intently into the face of his Elven captive.  
  
'For what purpose have we stopped?' Legolas asked, not really interested.  
  
'We need to allow the men to open the tunnel,' came the dark response.  
  
'Tunnel? What-' Legolas' words failed him, as he saw a great, gasping hole of the deepest pitch open out before them as several men toiled to draw back great huge boulders. His senses were assaulted, particularly his sense of smell – Orcs had been down there, and the stench of death assailed them where they stood, some twenty feet from the entrance.  
  
Gríma noted the sudden change over the Elf with interest: he had gone white as snow, and, if he was not mistaken, he was as tense as stone.  
  
The procession began to descend gradually down – until it came to the turn of Legolas. He had his feet firmly planted, a slight tremble to his frame, his good hand gripping the rope with an easy strength that totally disabled the man leading him from carrying out his job.  
  
A grin curled Gríma's lips at this.  
  
'So. Not very fond of tunnels, are we, Master Elf?'  
  
'I will not go down there,' Legolas said bluntly. 'There is no way you can make me.'  
  
'Oh, but I think there is: bring them forth!'  
  
The Wild Men holding Éomer's men brought them to where Legolas and Gríma were, and at a single gesture from their commander placed blades to their throats.  
  
'I shall be blunt: if you do not adhere to my order they will die and be left out here for the Orcs. Understand?'  
  
Legolas gazed upon each face in turn. They were all expressionless as they watched him back, adamant that they would display no fear, though they felt it – Legolas could practically smell it on them. He released the rope, and began to walk into the black. He was ultimately responsible for their capture – he would be damned if they were going to die because of his own fears.  
  
His boots submerged into deep, squelching filth, sucked under by it, heavy with it as it piled on top of his footwear, refusing to let go. In the dim light of the torches that had now been lit, Legolas could see numerous corpses, decomposing bodies sticking out of the dirt, grisly grins on rotting skeletal faces. He shied slightly when they crossed one in particular which lay directly in their path – this person, whoever they had been, had been dead for no more than three weeks, and dry, clouded eyes looked straight into his own; it made the hair rise on the back of his neck – no matter how dead they were, terror was still fixed in them, and it conveyed itself instantly to the Elf. He tried to back away in his repulsion, to get away from those misted eyes that bore into him so intensely.  
  
'He was once like your friends behind us,' Gríma hissed, a long hand gripping the shoulder of the immortal before him in a manner that caused the Elf to shudder. 'Saruman decided to let the Ors toy with him ... it looks like they got bored.'  
  
Legolas felt nauseous, sick with fear as anything else – this was a sight such as he had never seen before in all of his millennia, far beyond the reach of the worst nightmare he had ever been subjected to. This was what terrified him so much about death: the loss of who you were, the way flesh fell away from bones like tattered rags from a beggar. His acute Elven senses were of no help to him: he could smell the rotting flesh with far more intensity than any of the Men present, and it nearly made him faint. Black spots hung in his vision, threatening to gather like storm clouds and black out his eyes completely.  
  
There came a sharp jerk on the rope that caught him unawares, yanking him forward, straight onto the corpse. It was only his Elven reflexes that saved him from placing a foot right through the putrid stomach: he arched his back in mid air, cat-like, bringing his feet up under himself and throwing them in front of the rest of his body, skidding in the slick muck when he landed. He caught hold of a Wild Man to stop himself from slipping, resisting the strong urge to punch the man in the nose for what he did.  
  
'Keep moving if you want to get out of here any time soon: the exit lies ahead.'  
  
For what Legolas promised himself would be the first and last time in his life, he heeded the advice of Wormtongue, following his guard through the dark, passing yet more corpses along their way ... compared to this nightmare, Moria was a summer garden.  
  
They reached the exit at last, after what must have been a mile of filth and terror, finally entering a dark corridor of blackest stone. An odd light from the top of a spiral staircase provided the only light no, as all torches had been extinguished in buckets to the side of the great wooden door through which they had passed. One of the said containers was kicked towards Legolas, water lapping over its sides.  
  
'Wash you feet,' Gríma ordered, doing so himself in a different bucket. Legolas saw no point in refusing – what would it prove? And, besides, he needed to get this wretched sludge from his boots.  
  
Once all were clean, Gríma instructed some of the Wild Men to dispense of the other prisoners in a cell, which lay along the same corridor, dismissing the others barring the two who held Legolas' ropes.  
  
'Now,' said the sniveling rat in a smug voice, 'it is time to meet your host.' 


	8. Chapter Eight Confrontations

Chapter Eight - Confrontations  
  
Saruman stepped forward to examine his new captive, who glared at him with eyes like chips of blue ice, his mouth set in a straight line. The wizard clasped the Elf's chin in a grip that mocked the strength of the jaws of a wolf, turning the head of Legolas so that he could look at the various cuts and bruises. Legolas tried to jerk his head free, but his attempts did nothing for him - which did not make him give up, his eyes remaining hard and unrelenting in their unblinking stare.  
  
Saruman was reminded of a horse, proud and spirited, straining against the ropes of a new master. This was an Elf - a prince - and Saruman knew that there was no chance of him willingly accepting his circumstances. He was proud. He would not allow his dignity to be destroyed by the wizard's treatment of him, and Saruman knew this.  
  
The wizard chuckled to himself as he went back to his high seat, staff in hand, somewhat like a king with his sceptre.  
  
"All that is missing," thought Legolas bitterly, "is a crown of berry-rich yew."  
  
Legolas stood before Saruman, tall and regal in front of the wizard. His face was set in stony defiance, and Gríma could see that this was going to be a very interesting confrontation between the two...  
  
'I welcome you, Thranduilion,' said Saruman in a silky voice. He waited for a reaction, and there was a deep silence as he watched the Elf – who watched him back with that unblinking contemptuous stare.  
  
'It is common courtesy to bow to your host, Thranduilion, or at least to acknowledge his words; I would have thought that, with you being of high royal blood and reared in a king's court, would know this.'  
  
Legolas responded to this by saying in a quiet yet carrying voice that could be heard with all of its subtleness at the other end of the chamber: 'I bow only to lords and kings, not traitors and deceivers, Saruman the Betrayer.'  
  
Saruman's eyes flashed briefly before he said: 'I care not that you are of noble lineage, Legolas Greenleaf: I will not tolerate any lack in showing respect for me, especially from you!'  
  
Legolas shook his head slowly, his blue eyes still fixed on the aged figure on the high seat before him, his face still holding the opprobrious expression. 'There is nothing left to respect.'  
  
Saruman was on his feet, his face filled with pure wrath, and he held his staff in a threatening manner.  
  
'Your Elven stubbornness will be your down fall,' he warned. 'Bow to me!' His bellow shook the chamber, and Gríma recoiled a little where he stood.  
  
'I will not bow to you.'  
  
"Softly spoken," thought Gríma. "Foolishly said."  
  
The scream pierced his thoughts as Saruman pushed his staff forward. It touched not the Elf, but he clutched at his bound arm desperately as though Saruman were beside him hitting it. As sharply as the scream had started it was stopped, as Saruman drew his staff back to himself, an odd glint in his eye. The Elf panted briefly before straightening his back to look Saruman in the face again. There was no contempt there any more: it was hatred.  
  
'Bow.' The wizard's voice was of a deadly calm now ... indeed, he sounded very much to Gríma like a master trying to teach an exceptionally stubborn child with the last remaining threads of his patience fraying.  
  
Legolas' lip curled, his teeth bared in a snarl at the wizard.  
  
'No!' That had not been said either quietly or calmly, nor was it shouted; that one word was uttered with the force of one of the most powerful emotions in the world, and had emerged from between clenched teeth, defiance standing strong in its sounding.  
  
"How very unwise," Gríma thought.  
  
The Elf screamed again with the agony that was so much more savage this time than it had been before. But Legolas refused to even slightly incline his head lest it be mistaken for a bow, and instead went down on his knees.  
  
He riveted his eyes upon Saruman even as the wizard intensified the pain in the break, making it feel like a vice crushed the broken bone without touching his arm. His vision blackened at the edges, and the epiphany of evil itself began to grow darker. All of the pain, the anger, the fear welled inside him, a seething mass of emotion that boiled in his mind like a nest of roused vipers ready to strike. They struck.  
  
Legolas gave an ear-splitting cry as he flung at Saruman all of his built- up energy. He did not know how he did it, or even how he knew what he was to do with it, but he did know that it was some form of magic that he blasted at the wizard ... a magic that Saruman was unable to counter before it was too late.  
  
As soon as it left his being, though, it sapped his body of all energy, and he collapsed to the cold stone, rendered unconscious by the sheer intensity of the action.  
  
Saruman was thrown back into his chair by the sudden and unexpected force that Legolas had thrown at him. It shocked him to say the least. He had heard of this before, but had never actually encountered it in a living Elf.  
  
He glared down coldly at the still being on the black floor, a snarl flittering across his aquiline features. He had been beaten. Again. And by an Elf, this time, one whom he had never expected to be able to do more than was average for one of his kind. It had been a powerful attack, but Saruman doubted very much whether the Elf would be able to do it again.  
  
As for being defied, he had told the creature that he would not tolerate it, and he had meant that.  
  
'Gríma!'  
  
Gríma was at the wizards' elbow instantly, eyebrows raised as he looked upon the old man with expectant askance.  
  
'He has spirit,' said Saruman, staring down at the Elf still as though he had found a disagreeable stain on the floor. 'I do not like spirit. It shall be crushed from him.' He turned his coal-black eyes to the watery blue ones of the man next to him. 'I appoint you with the task.'  
  
Gríma bowed to this. Good. Vengeance for his broken nose at least would be his ... he still loathed Saruman for that mocking grin he had given him when the wizard had asked what had happened to his face. When he had said that the Elf had done it he had openly laughed at him. He did not know why - it was not as though the Elf was weak. He was many things, but certainly not that.  
  
'Take him down,' Gríma commanded the Wild Men who were hanging about at the back of the chamber. 'Make sure he is shackled well, but leave the broken arm alone. No one is to go down there except me.'  
  
He wondered briefly if they had fully taken in his words, but decided that he cared not. He was more shocked at the instruction he had issued for them to not touch the broken arm. Why had he said that? He hated the Elf, after all. Perhaps it was out of a small level of respect he had attained for the immortal – one could not prevent oneself from admiring one's enemy when they did what the Elf had done for his friends the other night. Gríma only wished that he could have a relationship with someone of such strength that they would be willing to go to any lengths to ensure his welfare. All at once with that thought his hatred intensified – how dare the Elf have something that he knew he could never reach!  
  
TRANSLATIONS  
  
Thranduilion – Son of Thranduil 


	9. Chapter Nine Total Darkness

I like this one ... just thought I'd say...  
  
Chapter Nine - Total Darkness  
  
Total darkness. The deepest black that he had ever experienced in his entire life. And it wrapped itself in choking folds about his body, refusing to let even his mind go unaffected, as it pressed its merciless cold hands into his soul. It oppressed his very spirit, denied him even the memory of fresh air, as it was close in here, damp and heavy with decay. He shared with a skeleton; he knew it by that sickly earthy smell that came to him. Moulded bones.  
  
He sat on his legs because the floor was damp. He was cold enough without having moist clothing as well as heart. His legs were indeed damp, and his upper body dry ... but that did not stop it from seeping in and chilling the rest of him. Elves were resistant to cold, that was true - but even they had limits, and the environment that Legolas had been forced into went over that line. This was not the usual kind of cold ... it was not a natural chill, otherwise he would not have been able to feel it as he was. He had braved blizzards without a cloak and had been totally comfortable. There was some kind of dark magic here that worked past his normal senses and penetrated his elven-spirit, causing him to feel the discomfort of mortals.  
  
Legolas had his chin resting upon his good arm - which had a shackle encompassing his wrist, keeping it held high with an icy steel grip above his shoulder level as he sat. The pressure from the weight of his head strained at his wrist, and he could feel it chafing his skin - but he no longer cared for such a trivial thing as nagging pain that accompanied bruised and cut skin.  
  
This was depression as he had never felt it before. He needed the outside, to see the sky, to smell the grass on the breeze. As a Wood-elf, it was essential to his spirit that he have some connection with the outside or he would sink lower into his despair, possibly to the extent of never emerging from it again.  
  
A key clanked in the lock of the door. Legolas sprang to his feet. His pride would not allow anyone to see him knocking at Despair's door. Besides, he was the Prince of Mirkwood, the only heir to the throne of his lands. His very title called him to stand with a straight back to face whatever Fate had in store for him. It was what his father would have expected of him. It was high time that he showed what and who he was: his mother had been of the Avari, his father was of the Laiquendi Elves, the great King Thranduil. He was Thranduilion.  
  
A smile alighted his lips as it had not done for what felt like an age, and it remained as the heavy door opened, admitting Gríma into the dungeon.  
  
Gríma could see the Elf before he had fully opened the door, even in the small dose of light that managed to get through. It fell on the being's face in a long slither. It was very little in quantity, and it was poor - so poor that the only real indication that it fell on fair skin was a faint difference from the surrounding darkness. But it was caught by an unblinking eye, which reflected it back to him in a gleam that was far more intense and bright than the stuff that seeped through the crack in the door. So bright! "How could it be?" he pondered briefly.  
  
He fully opened the door, deliberately leaving it open for the Elf to stare out at freedom, which lay naught but a stone's-throw away from him, yet impossible for him to actually obtain.  
  
Legolas focused on the light. He knew that it was not much, and that it had a dirty quality to it, but it was better than anything that he got when that door was closed - which was none at all - and it gave him some indication that there was still a world outside, and that in turn strengthened his heart. It was all that he had.  
  
Gríma's boots sounded on the dirty stone and he drew his cloak about himself tighter. It was freezing down here, and it made him shiver. It stank. Filthy. Decaying. Still, it bothered him not - the Elf deserved to live in this squalor for breaking his nose and rib as he had done.  
  
He was here again, just as he had been yesterday. All of his words the day before had been wasted; Legolas had just stood there, completely ignoring him and singing of all things! That had been most infuriating for Gríma - it had been like trying to talk with a simpleton, which, he knew, the Elf was not by any means.  
  
He came to stand a few feet from the prince - he would not go any closer than that, for his nose was still incredibly tender, and he was not prepared to have it made any worse.  
  
Legolas regarded the Man, and his smile turned to a grin. He knew perfectly well why he stood so far off, and it amused him considerably.  
  
His eyes flashed to what Gríma held in his hand. As the Man saw this, he lifted it to his mouth and took a huge bit out of the chicken leg, chewing with his mouth open.  
  
Legolas turned his eyes away in disgust, fighting to retain his equanimity, at which Gríma chuckled through the meat.  
  
'Hungry?'  
  
Legolas snorted and refused to grace that with an answer. He had not been given anything to eat, and, as the despicable little Man chewed deliberately loudly, he was made horribly aware that nothing had passed his lips for four days. Were he a Man, he would be weak with hunger, but Elves were capable of going much longer without any sustenance, and that was of comfort. But he would need something soon.  
  
'Interesting,' began Gríma, inspecting his food, 'how you still manage to be so insubordinate, even about so simple a question.'  
  
'It's a gift,' came the terse reply. Legolas had no wish to have to bare the presence of Gríma Wormtongue, and he was beginning to contemplate singing again ... he knew a good long one about how stupid and easily corrupted Men were, which he thought to be fairly fitting. He would sing in his own tongue, of course, just to emphasise his point.  
  
'I wonder,' began Gríma before the Elven prince had commenced with his song, 'where your dear friends are?'  
  
'Not here.' A pathetic answer, he knew, but he really had no patience at the moment to engage in small talk with this snivelling rat-faced puppet.  
  
'Well that is plain,' Gríma snorted. 'But they did not follow, did they, as you did yourself those past days. They have abandoned you, Legolas,' he said quietly. 'Haven't they? They have left you to preserve their own skins.'  
  
"Ignore it and it will go away," thought the Elf calmly. "If not, it will die of boredom." That final thought he found fairly amusing, and the flicker of a smile touched the corner of his lips - the fact that he found it even remotely amusing confused him.  
  
'They have left you, Legolas. Your faithful friends who value your companionship so much.' He was not going to give up. The Elf was breakable, he knew that he was - it was just a case of finding the weak point and working into it. Slowly, so that it would achieve a better affect. To bring his world down, piece by piece, until it lay in an unfixable mess of shattered dreams and values, all mauled into discernible bits by such little things as words.  
  
'I sympathise with you, my friend.' Those were very false words, and he knew that the Elf picked up on that, even though he had tried to hide them, for he was shot such a glare that he almost cowered under it. But it had been a glance, little more, and it was a sure indication that he was getting somewhere with this. 'How completely alone you are,' he whispered. 'How completely, utterly, alone. None to hear your lonely, pained cries into the night save your own sorrowful ears and the rats that await your carrion.'  
  
Legolas' head bowed slightly - a minute movement, barely detectable to any whom were not skilled in reading such actions ... but Gríma was, and it leapt out at him like a beacon atop of a mountain.  
  
But the handsome head lifted again, a benign smile turning the lips up at the edges.  
  
'Why, I am not alone, Master Gríma,' he observed with a falsely light voice, generated purely to annoy. 'I have my dear friend, Raeg-Nem, in the corner there-' Legolas inclined his head towards the depths of the shadows to the right. Nothing could be seen, but the Man knew what was there. There was a mocking glint in the eyes of the Elf, and Gríma knew that it had something to do with himself. Sure enough: 'I named him after you.'  
  
'Really? And what does it mean, exactly?'  
  
'Great One.'  
  
Gríma had to fight with himself to keep his temper level. The Elf lied to him, that was plain, and he hated being patronised in this way. It was incredibly tempting to lash out at the Elf - but he held the knowledge that that would undoubtedly be a very stupid thing to do; the Elf was shackled and wounded, that was true, but it did not mean he was incapable of striking out, and there was still a significant amount of strength left.  
  
Right. Perhaps that had not been as successful as he had originally thought. A different approach was certainly called for...  
  
'Was he one of your Elven friends, left to rot in here like yourself?'  
  
'I doubt that.'  
  
'Do you indeed? Death is not always required for a body to rot - not entirely, any way. For you will rot in here, Thranduilion, just like he did, with none to mourn your passing save the fleas that you will eventually get from the rats.  
  
'Aragorn will not mourn you, will he? He will continue with his little quest with the Dwarf, and they will forget you. Merely a part of their history, not even worth their time glancing over in their minds. That insignificant immortal, the only one of his selfish kind to cross their paths-'  
  
Legolas' head snapped to look Gríma in the face, bright eyes blazing. '"Selfish kind?"'  
  
There was outrage in the voice, cold and disbelieving - Gríma heard it as clearly as the eagle sees the rabbit before it swoops down to seize its' prey in steely talons.  
  
'Yes, dear Elf, selfish kind: those who have the gift of life eternal, while all others are doomed with the mortal man's bane.'  
  
'You glorify immortality in your mind with your misconceptions.'  
  
'Do you think so? Man could do so much with ever-lasting life, yet are restrained by Death; but what do the Elves do with it? Nothing worth taking into account! You sit in your forests and sing the days away, 'til you go over the sea to fulfill your pathetic little longings! Yes, your people are selfish, Master Elf!'  
  
Legolas did not take his eyes from the Man's face, and the rage burned in his soul. Insults to himself he could take - even laugh at - but he despised his people being spoken of in such a manner. He would not tolerate it.  
  
'Let us explore the whole notion of selfishness, shall we, Master Gríma?' Legolas' words cut through the air with their iciness, and his speech passed from its usual softness into harshness, like a placid dog turned nasty under threat, snarling at its' tormenter. 'Who was it that placed an entire kingdom under threat of death for their own ends? Who was it that was prepared to have the blood of innocent women and children on his hands for a single desire? Who was it that told their master of the lives fleeing to Helm's Deep and the exact route they would take, all because he could not have his way with the Shieldmaiden of Rohan?'  
  
Legolas' voice quietened, though his anger took him in its hard claws, and he talked in a low hiss, each word coming from his mouth with more power and spite behind it. 'Do not DARE to tell me that my people are weak and selfish, Gríma Wormtongue, for I know what you have done to try and slake your own carnal appetites!'  
  
Gríma trembled with fury, his nostrils pinched and face paler than was normal, even for him. The want for the Elf's blood to flow freely over the floor was greater than he had ever felt, and he found himself taking hurried steps forward into the circle he had previously not dared to enter.  
  
Legolas stood to his full height. "Go on," he thought. "Believe me, there is nothing I would like you to do more."  
  
His hands were balled into fists as he looked upon the cold face of the Elf, in which the blue eyes burned like glowing embers. They enticed him to strike, daring him with their mocking light. The temptation was such that he raised a fist ... and he swung - but he stopped just before he struck. The eyes did not blink, the skin did not even twinge slightly at the prospect of being hit. The Elf stared at him, down on him. If he punched him, Gríma doubted that he would be permitted to leave the chamber with an intact windpipe. The Elf towered over him, and he would easily best him in a fight, even with one arm out of action and the other shackled. This was a dangerous being to challenge, and he had not any to come to his aid if it should turn sour.  
  
The bunched fist shook as it was lowered to his side, and he turned on his heel to leave, slamming the door behind himself.  
  
Legolas was plunged into the pitch dark again, and he found in the perpetual night the cold, slimed stone of the wall, into which he pressed his back, closing his eyes, trying to calm his racing breath. He swallowed hard, as though trying to push his anger down. He only wished that he had struck out when he had the chance. That would have made him feel considerably better, he decided. "No," he told himself. "It would be foolish to do such a thing, no matter how tempting - that is an Orcish thing to do. I am above all that."  
  
His arm was throbbing with the cold, intensified by his speeding heart rate. This was doing it no good, and he pined for the soothing affects of athelas, just to bathe it in. He had none, and he need not even ponder over asking for some - to even think that his request would be heeded with foolish.  
  
The skin above the fracture was vividly bruised, but he had the knowledge that it was a simple break, which should offer him a little more ease about it - but he could find no ease over anything at the moment, not down here in this pit of misery.  
  
He sighed heavily. "Soon," he thought, "I shall not be able to withstand Wormtongue's prying. What will I do then to keep my spirits?" 


	10. Chapter Ten Webs of Deceit

Chapter Ten - Webs of Deceit  
  
Gríma should have said something, he could see that now, and cursed himself avidly for not doing so as he fled up the spiral staircase from the dungeons into the better light. That, at least, was of comfort – the darkness and chill down there had weighed down on him considerably; that spell of Saruman's – whatever it was – certainly had an affect on him. He had been down there for only about twenty minutes, and already felt depression in his heart, though he knew not quite why. Oh, but yes, he did know the reason: that damn Elf!  
  
He had succeeded - in a respect – and failed in another. He had found a weak point that the Elf clearly felt quite strongly about ... but he had failed because he had revealed himself, show his own weakness; if only he had remained composed! Damn that creature!  
  
He came to just outside of Saruman's study, where the old man sat at the ancient table pouring over something, his back to the door. Gríma surveyed him with a cold eye from the doorway, contemplating whether or not he should enter. "No," he thought. "I am in absolutely no mood to bandy with him, even if those were his orders-"  
  
'Do not lurk in the shadows of the door, Gríma – you are not in the Meduseld now.'  
  
Gríma cursed silently at the turned back before arriving at the wizard's side to stand in silence, from which point he could now see exactly what Saruman was looking over. It was a highly detailed map that spanned to the north of Isengard, engulfing Mirkwood and Eriador. He wondered briefly why he looked at this map in particular – it made no sense, as Saruman's focus had always been on Rohan, and after that further south. Why he looked at the wholly uninhabitable largest forest in the whole of Middle-earth he had no idea – surely he was not considering trying to take it?  
  
'Has he broken yet?' The wizard spoke quietly, and there was a tone to his voice that made Gríma look at him with intrigue. It was not quite hope – well, maybe it was...  
  
'I – no, my Lord.'  
  
Saruman drew a line directly across the map with a loaded quill, the nib grating across the parchment as he did so.  
  
'Why?' He did not even look up as he asked the question.  
  
Gríma paused before he answered: 'Because he is - resilient. I think that I have worked into a weakness, and he just-' the memories from those few passed minutes brought back his anger. But he quickly pushed it down again before he continued ... 'comes back with something I am unable to counter.'  
  
Saruman drew another line on the map, and acted as though Gríma was not there beside him, completely ignoring his presence, it seemed, before saying: 'And what else?'  
  
Gríma's feet shuffled slightly. How could he say this without sounding whiny and pathetic?  
  
'He mocks me openly, my Lord.'  
  
When Saruman failed to speak, he continued. 'He says that he has named the skeleton in the dungeon after me, though I know he lies about its meaning.'  
  
'What does he call it?' The voice was soft, oddly soothing. It made Gríma think that he could tell the wizard anything and receive no scorn or mockery.  
  
'"Raeg-Nem."'  
  
Saruman laughed at him, shattering the false sense of security like a rock on frail glass.  
  
'"Raeg-nem" means "crooked-nose". Understandable, really, that he should find it fitting to name the skeleton after you.'  
  
Gríma snarled down at the figure before him as Saruman continued to trace his finger over the inked parchment.  
  
'What would you have me do?' he asked in a pinched voice. 'I hold no control over what he thinks. He does not heed any of my words-'  
  
'What did you find?' Saruman was clearly not willing to listen to him. Why bother?  
  
'Nothing that can be of use, I do not think.' But then he thought for a time, before adding: 'Save that he is very sensitive about his people - scorning them was the only time that I managed to make him angry, to get a reaction. No. He did not like that at all...  
  
'I need more information about him, a little more on his background, family and the sorts.'  
  
Six men ghosted outside the chamber, one of which caught his eye, awaiting the command to go down to the dungeons, to which Gríma gave his single nod of agreement. The Elf would pay dearly for what he had said, very much so, and these faithful six that had come with him from the Meduseld would be more than happy to comply to Gríma's wishes, as they knew exactly what was expected, and enjoyed fulfilling that expectation. Yes, he would pay most dearly for it...  
  
Saruman paused in what he was doing, clearly thinking over what had just been said, before sitting back in his chair and actually looking at Gríma, eye to eye.  
  
'He was of about two-hundred years when the War of the Ring occurred - to you, that means he was a small child - and his father and brother went to fight-'  
  
'A brother? I never knew of such brethren. That is interesting ... very much so...'  
  
A glint of anger passed over the wizard's face at being interrupted, and Gríma fell silent at the glare.  
  
'Two went away, one returned. At the loss of her eldest son, Thranduil's queen grew mad with the grief, and set out with a small party in the dead of night to find her son - but she never got any further than the forest edge, as they were set upon by Orcs. All were killed.  
  
'Teetering on the edge of tipping into the black of total elven grief, Thranduil focused himself almost entirely on his remaining son, and a bondage was formed of exceptional strength, which still stands today.'  
  
Gríma nodded slowly to himself, an idea gradually forming itself in his mind, growing faster and faster, until it was fully fledged in his brain, like a Fell Beast ready to fly out and seek its prey. Family was something that Gríma had never had before in his life – well, not a close-nit one like he had seen in the Meduseld, anyway. But he had a fairly sound idea of how important such relations could be in a tight bond like that, and he imagined that Legolas and his father would be little different. Actually, the fact they were so very, very close in their broken family unit was of extreme importance, and Gríma could see it working to their advantage. How was an entirely different kettle of fish, though...  
  
'There is an Elven lord,' Saruman began spontaneously, 'who lives in the Woodland Realm named Daerahil. He is very close to his Liege and his son...'  
  
He heard the door above the dungeons go. That was the first sign to him that something was amiss: Gríma had just left. Why would he be coming back? That made no sense to him, no sense at all. Then his keen ears picked up on who was coming down the stairs: six separate beings, he was able to decipher, and they were Men, by their talk – not Wild Men, though...  
  
A knot of cold dread seized his stomach. What were those footsteps bringing? He was sure it would not be food or drink; he had, after all, just made Gríma very angry...  
  
The cell door opened, and the six men slipped in, all carrying torches. They entered with deliberate slowness, and Legolas was able to scrutinise each one of them as they looked at him, unnerving grins set on their faces. He knew these men: they had been the ones in the Meduseld, the ones who had tried – and failed – to stop Gandalf, Aragorn, Gimli and himself from getting to the King; plainly they had been Wormtongue's bodyguards.  
  
Legolas had never dreamt that he would be disappointed to not see Gríma, but he knew with utmost certainty that he was now, and he gave a sad inward sigh as he accepted what was about to happen to him, something that those eyes full of burning iniquity promised him.  
  
Something glinted dully in the light of the flames on one of the men's hand – was that a knuckleduster? Yes, his eyes confirmed, it was.  
  
"Eru, what have I done to deserve this? Was taunting Gimli about being tossed really that bad?"  
  
'We've come to make your stay here as ... uncomfortable as we possibly can,' one of the men cajoled, simply making himself sound utterly stupid to the Elf as he tried vainly to exercise what he thought was a clever wit.  
  
'Thank you,' Legolas replied flatly. 'I'm sure you'll try your best.'  
  
The man was now standing before him, dark eyes glinting in the firelight. 'Oh don't worry,' came the response. 'We intend to.'  
  
Legolas doubled over, practically choking in pain as a fist was planted with formidable force into the stretch of muscle just below the arch of his ribcage.  
  
'Is that the best you can do?' he gasped. "No, you fool!" the sensible half of his brain screamed. "Don't provoke them, you imbecile!" The other, more stubborn half made his mouth spit in the face of his assailant ... only to be greeted by a foot in the ribs.  
  
"Perhaps provoking them is not such a good idea..."  
  
***  
  
They had had to stop for a brief rest for the sake of the horses, who were in dire need of a break after the constant gallop Aragorn had made them maintain: there was no sense in riding them to death – it was a very long way to Edoras.  
  
Provisions were non-existent, and they had stopped by a stream, deeming water to be more important that food, as they had had nothing to drink for two days, which was way too long. The horses joined them in their session of slaking their thirst, and then wondered out a little to gaze.  
  
'I could do with something,' Gimli commented, and his stomach gave a groan of agreement.  
  
'We have nothing,' Aragorn replied bluntly. 'Not a crumb of lembas, nor a shred of dried meat.'  
  
There came a short pause before: 'What is your plan, Aragorn?'  
  
Aragorn ran a wet hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. 'We should reach Edoras within a day. Then we shall alert the King of ... what has occurred. We should be able to ride back out within a couple of hours.'  
  
Gimli nodded in acknowledgement at this, though his mind boiled with questiones... Why had this all happened? Would the King consent to having his men ride out to Isengard again? But there was one, which stood out first and foremost in his thoughts...  
  
'Is he going to be alright?'  
  
Aragorn lifted his grey eyes to those of Gimli. Deep and sorrowful was how Gimli perceived them, their colour reflecting both the mood of the Ranger and his own.  
  
'I wish I knew,' came the response in a restrained voice, restricted by what Gimli knew to be inner pain and worry right from the depths of his very soul. Gimli had a foundation knowledge of how much Legolas meant to Aragorn, and he knew that he could not even begin to imagine how incredible the sense of vexation and ache must be for the Ranger concerning the situation of their friend – Aragorn's best friend. They simply did not know, and that was the worst thing. If he were dead or alive they had not a clue, nor had they any means of attaining that information. Seventy-two years Aragorn had known Legolas, and even in the life of a Dwarf that was a sizable amount of time. To an Elf it was probably little more than the bat of an eyelid, the beat of a heart; though that single blink seemed to have had an incredible effect on Legolas if he were willing to offer his life for the one he had blinked at.  
  
Aragorn leant back forward over the bank of the stream, splashing his face with the cold water before abruptly rising and emitting a shrill whistle, to which the horses responded, plodding over to them loyally. Brego rubbed his face against Aragorn's arm, forcing the Ranger to give slight smile of amusement. Arod, however, stood off from the Dwarf, eyeing him with clear suspicion, and the distrustful look was answered by Gimli's expression. Aragorn chuckled at this spectacle.  
  
'Gimli, my friend, if you do not trust him, then the feeling will be returned ten-fold to you.'  
  
'It is not the horse I distrust, Aragorn: 'tis the evil glint in his eye!'  
  
'Gimli, he is a horse. Horses do not have evil glints in their eyes. Just go up to him, let him know that he has nothing to fear from you.'  
  
The Dwarf eyed him before he began to slowly advance upon the beast – something which Aragorn had thought to be unlikely to happen, but found to be highly amusing. A tentative hand extended out to a slender neck, giving a series of ginger pats.  
  
'There, you see? You are a natural!' Aragorn laughed, especially when he received a scathing glance for his mockery.  
  
'No: the Pointy-ear is a natural – this horse only bares my presence because of the Elf...  
  
'Why did he do it, Aragorn? What is he, to have done that? Insane?'  
  
Aragorn heaved a sigh, absent-mindedly rubbing Brego's muzzle. 'He is many things – mad, certainly. But insane? No, Legolas is not insane.'  
  
Gimli snorted. 'I suppose there is a difference between madness and insanity?'  
  
'Oh yes – it's a very fine line – though Legolas does tend to overstep it occasionally,' he muttered, reflecting upon the various events which had unfolded during Aragorn's more youthful years ... that – interesting – meeting with the cave troll had certainly come about during a small eclipse of insanity over Legolas. True, it had landed both of them in the healing chambers of Orophon's House for a month, but it had definitely been an experience Aragorn was never likely to forget until the day he died. "And probably after that," he reasoned.  
  
He hauled himself into the saddle, Brego shifting under the new weight, magnificent head tossing, ready for whatever his master commanded.  
  
Grudgingly, Gimli set his left foot in the stirrup, which was situated a little too high for his short legs. He grabbed the saddle, dragging himself into the seat with a considerable amount of effort. He was eternally grateful for that saddle and those reins; indeed, had Legolas had his way, then there would not be either a saddle or bridle, and they would have ridden "elf-fashion", and then Gimli would not have had a single chance of escape as they had two nights ago.  
  
Aragorn turned his gaze south-east in the direction of which lay Edoras and, more importantly it seemed at the moment, help. With a nudge from his heels, Brego launched forth with all strength restored and endurance doubled, Gimli and Arod behind them – but only because Aragorn had given the horse of the other a slap to get him moving.  
  
And so they rode, determined not to stop until they had reached their goal.  
  
***  
  
Legolas could see red now, as he looked up briefly at his abusers – that was not through anger, mind, but due to the blood from a cut – or several – that had been made by many a boot, and had managed to trickle down into his eyes.  
  
The operation of his brain had become sluggish with the pain, and now he had resided to wondering whether or not the men would get bored soon and leave him alone, with the hope which forever hung in the back of his mind that someone would kick him a little too hard on the head and he would be able to slip into unconsciousness.  
  
He had tried to curl up in order to spare both his broken arm and injured side, but that had not worked as well as he had thought it would, as he could feel his side burning with re-awakened pain. Whether it bled or not he could not he was not overly sure, but he had made certain that it was not to be seen as a weak point, keeping the level of pain that could be seen in his face to a minimum.  
  
"Look at you!" one half of his brain shrieked. "How could you just let them do this to you? How can you just cringe here like some animal and take it?"  
  
"It hurts too much," the other side protested feebly. "I can't move..."  
  
"You are pathetic! Do you call yourself a warrior? These are MEN you are allowing to break you! Adar would be ashamed if he were to see you now, ashamed!"  
  
Fight back ... could he fight back? Was he capable of that?  
  
"TRY!"  
  
His good hand found the chain, acting almost without his brain as it sealed a tight grip on the metal. Legolas forced his mind and body to cooperate, pushing his agonised muscles into action.  
  
There was a Man coming at him now, from the right, he could hear – that was how they had been doing it, attacking individually, delivering a kick or punch then moving off to make way for another to have his turn.  
  
Legolas heaved his body up to swing on the chain, and thrashed his legs out in a coordinated fashion in the direction of his assailant. He felt the soles of his boots connect with the bone of two shins, and gained considerable satisfaction when he heard a snap, accompanied by a pained cry and dull thud as a body hit the floor.  
  
He pulled himself to his feet, shaking his head to clear it, and looked about him. There was one on the floor, clutching at his legs, and there were a further five, all hanging back, plainly surprised that their sport could stand and indeed strike out.  
  
'You will not touch me again,' Legolas warned, wondering whether or not his words would be heeded. 'Not one of you, or I shall break your legs too.'  
  
There was something about that that seemed to install a small amount of respect into these men – or so it appeared – as the leader of the group said:  
  
'Come – we have don our work here.'  
  
They filed out, two supporting their lame companion, the door slamming behind them and cutting off all light.  
  
Legolas sank down against the wall in his pain, finally able to express it on his face as much as he liked.  
  
TRANSLATIONS  
  
Adar - Father 


	11. Chapter Eleven Tears of Blood

Chapter Eleven - Tears of Blood  
  
He was aware of the cold, and that was something that he knew he did not aught to be able to feel – not like he was doing, anyway. It was unnatural for one of his kind to be so conscious of the lowness of temperature as he was right now. He had felt it in all its intensity when he had been ill, he knew, and Aragorn had told him that it had not actually been even remotely chill. But that had been different. He had been very sick when that had happened, and now he was perfectly fit – despite the odd broken bone, that was.  
  
He was exhausted, both mentally and physically. Not once had he slept, not during the whole three days (had it been that long?); he could find no ease or rest of mind in this hovel, and he doubted that he ever would, even if he did succumb to sleep – there would be no sweet dreams that his mind would conjure as a method of psychological escape.  
  
His back was firmly pressed against the slick stone wall, whose moisture had seeped through the material of his jerkin and shirt, giving him a wholly unpleasant feeling on his skin, and he had no wish to know where the water had been before it had traversed its course down the stone. It made him feel as though he were extremely dirty – although the coldness of it did a little something to ease the pain in his back from where he had been kicked. There was pain all over, in fact, though he was not willing to let it get to him too much. It was particularly poignant at a point on the right side of his back, half way down his ribs; it hurt every time he breathed in, every slight movement that he made using his torso – which was more or less everything. Pain was something he ought to be used to by now, he knew, and he tried to convince himself that he had certainly felt worse than this in the not so distant past. It had been particularly nasty of that rat to send his witless wonders down to him like that.  
  
He had dragged himself into a sitting position, though it hurt to do so. It hurt so very, very much... Knuckledusters. He could not get over that – why use those, of all weapons? Against an unarmed being the use of those was a truly vile thing to do.  
  
He stretched his mouth, parting his jaws to their full extent despite the protest they made thanks to the bruising that he knew coloured his face imaginatively. He felt dried blood restrict his skin as it clung, and then came the sensation of the fine film splitting with the flexing of his flesh – but he cared not for it, rubbing his face half-heartedly on his shoulder to try and get a bit off. But where was the point? He was not going to see anyone soon that would care whether or not he had dried blood coating his face. Non that would care...  
  
Feet curled beneath himself, Legolas remained shackled to the wall, one arm dangling from iron chains and the other cradled in the belt that was still draped about his neck. Phenomenally, his broken arm had not been touched during his beating, something that he had not expected at all. The fact that they had allowed him to keep his broken arm in its' sling without so much as a rope to his wrist was something that surprised him greatly. He had expected them to chain it with his other one – not that he complained.  
  
This whole scenario brought to him memories and thoughts that he did not necessarily wish to think, that he had deemed long buried in the depths of his soul. Clearly not.  
  
Legolas shuttered his eyes against the perpetual dark. Really it was no different from having them open; but closed they remained, since he did not have the heart to remind his senses of his prison, a deep, depressed sigh escaping his dry, split lips...  
  
It was long passed the hour when he had been bid to go to bed, he knew that perfectly well – in fact, it was two hours ago that the candle had meant to have been blown out, and it now burned low in its holder, the sunken flame flickering. But that did not bother him, nor did it matter – all that mattered to him was not getting caught.  
  
The charcoal grated softly on the parchment, fine powder being left in its wake, obscuring what he was trying so very hard to draw. A gentle breath rushed it away, though, and he could see clearly what he was trying to do. A scowl crossed his fair face as he observed with a critical eye what he had done. As far as he was concerned, it looked nothing like what he was trying to draw for his naneth - it was a scrawl compared to the actual thing it was meant to be. He set the tip of his charcoal stick down again...  
  
The cat moved, stretching lazily on the bed covers, needle-like claws protracting briefly before disappearing again into the soft toes of her paws. Legolas cursed the creature avidly for this unforgivable crime ... to which she rolled over and began to purr in what the young Elf swore - literally - was mockery.  
  
The door opened abruptly, too fast for him to hide what he was doing – so he slumped against the pillows, pretending that sleep had claimed him long ago.  
  
'Legolas, what do you think you are doing?' That was his naneth's voice, he knew, though he selected ignoring her as the best option at the moment, just to make his performance as believable as was possible.  
  
'I know that you're awake, little one, so you may stop pretending now.'  
  
Damn. She was good at this – much better than Adar was. He straightened himself, and looked at her with the best I've-just-been-asleep-why-have-you- awoken-me expression on his face that he was able to muster. She was standing with her hands on her hips at the doorway, disappointment across her beautiful face as though someone had been at her with a quill and ink and written it there in bold lettering.  
  
'Legolas, why were you cursing the cat?'  
  
'Because she moved.' He tried to keep his voice as innocent as possible, tried to emphasise in his tone that this was a major offence in his eyes.  
  
'That is hardly a good enough response, Legolas. And where have you heard such foul language?'  
  
'Adar,' he replied simply, to which his Mother raised a brow, a sigh running passed her lips at her husband's free tongue.  
  
She crossed the room in a series of graceful steps and, rather than coming to his bedside, went to sit in the rocking chair at the foot of the bed.  
  
'And why are you still awake?'  
  
'I can't sleep.'  
  
'Have you even tried?' she asked gently.  
  
There was a brief pause before: 'Yes.'  
  
She laughed musically at him. 'Liar.'  
  
Legolas' naneth patted her lap, indicating to him that she wished him to come to her. He slipped from beneath the covers, his small feet slapping on the stone flooring, and was gently lifted into her lap, his head cradled in the crook of her left arm, feet over the arms of the chair. She rocked steadily as she held him close to her, her cheek resting on his rumpled nest of blond hair.  
  
'You're getting too big for this.'  
  
He snuggled into her warm body as she ran her fingertips soothingly across his scalp, moving occasionally to his cheek, the chair ever going back and forth, back and forth.  
  
'I love you dearly, do you know that, Legolas? I love you so, so much.' He felt a warm, damp sensation on his head from her cheek, but he never allowed it any thought, his heavy eyes lidded against the faint candle light.  
  
'I love you too, Naneth.'  
  
'How much,' she asked, trying to put the extra spark into her voice, trying to drag it back to what it should be, rather than chocked with tears.  
  
'More than Adar loves his treasure,' replied a muffled voice.  
  
She laughed again. 'You are his treasure, Legolas. You are worth more to us than anything that this world has to give. Just remember that your Naneth loves you, Legolas, no matter where she is – she will always love you above all else.'  
  
She proceeded in humming quietly to him, a soothing melody that, combined with her gentle, relaxing fingertips massaging his skin and the steady rock of the chair, he gradually yielded to sleep. He was comfortable, safe and relaxed; just here with his Naneth, completely happy in his little room in his Adar's impregnable palace.  
  
So warm, so calm. Perhaps he would finish the picture tomorrow...  
  
His eyes fluttered opened again, though he knew not why. It was completely dark in his chambers, the dead of night. But there was something wrong - what it was he had not the faintest idea ... all he knew was that it had awoken him from an interesting dream about a mountain and a horde of treasure guarded by that dragon that he knew lived in the East.  
  
He heard running in the corridors, commanding shouts – one of the voices, he could tell, was that of his adar. He sounded frantic, screaming out orders. He never screamed out orders...  
  
Legolas' feet pattered on the flags of stone as he trotted to his door, which he opened without hesitation, even though he knew he would undoubtedly get in some form of trouble for it.  
  
Soldiers were haring passed in full armour, quivers filled with arrows rattling on their backs as they ran. They were all heading towards where the stables lay.  
  
'Find the Queen! Find the Queen! Ride hard 'til you recover her!' That had been the Captain of the Guard yelling out then, and it was not long after his voice had echoed through the corridor that the Elf himself appeared, accompanied by Lord Daerahil and King Thranduil, Legolas' father and ruler of Greenwood.  
  
All of this shouting and activity at such an unnatural hour had unnerved the young princeling considerably, and when he had heard the words "find the Queen" he had become thoroughly distressed, and now stood in the open passage, tears streaking down his face. He did not understand – where had his naneth gone? Why were the guards in such a fluster?  
  
King Thranduil set his eyes upon his son as he strode down the length of the passageway and quickened his pace, scooping up the child, welcoming the pleading outstretched arms which had begged him to pick Legolas up. He held him close, hushing the child as he continued his urgent walk which threatened to break out into a run.  
  
'How did she get out in the first place?' This question had been directed at the Captain, the usually calm, smooth voice brimming with fearful anger.  
  
'Straight through the main gateway, my Liege; she took twelve of my best men with her-'  
  
'I DON'T CARE IF SHE TOOK THE WHOLE GUARD WITH HER! THE ENTIRE FOREST IS SWARMING WITH ORCS! THEY HAVE NOT A HOPE IN VALINOR OF NOT GETTING ATTACKED!'  
  
Thranduil hastened his step as he bellowed these words, as though they made the situation all the more desperate for what they stated. He looked down at his only son, who stared right back with reddened eyes. The King gave Legolas a tight squeeze and kiss on the forehead before handing him over to Daerahil.  
  
'Take care of him,' he bid his closest friend, who gave a nod of acknowledgement. The King turned away, leaving his son in the arms of the dark-featured Elf.  
  
'Adar!' Legolas cried, extending a hand to the retreating back.  
  
'I will come back to you, Legolas, I swear it!' And then Legolas' father's form was swallowed by a corner in the corridor, leaving him in the total charge of the family friend.  
  
Lord Daerahil sat with his prince for a full two and a half hours – which, he felt, were the most trying of his life: it was no easy task trying to calm a distressed child of such an age where explanations meant about as much to him as a book to a troll. The child had writhed in his arms, screamed and cried, until noises coming from the outside of his bedchamber attracted the young Elf's attention. Lord Daerahil - fearing the worst due to the sounds of the voices – tired to grab the boy before he could open the door ... but to no avail: the princeling had clearly inherited his father's agility, and had slipped passed the Elf and out of the door before he could be retained.  
  
Legolas would never forget that image of that night when they brought his naneth back home, dying, with poisoned black shafts protruding from her chest and stomach. At that age, though, he had not known what those black pieces of wood were, or what the stained, torn feathers meant, and so he had accepted Lord Daerahil's hand as it guided him back to his chamber. As far as he was aware, his naneth slept – an odd way to sleep, but there you go.  
  
The palace was still the next morning: not a soul uttered a sound as they went about their chores. The place was cheerless. There was a palpable sense of loss that weighed heavily in the air, and even Legolas – young as he was – could feel it, and knew in his heart of hearts what it meant.  
  
He took himself to the Great Hall. All he wanted to do was see his adar, and the guards permitted him entry to the huge room without a moments hesitation, eyes welling with sympathy as they watched their prince go to see their king.  
  
He walked over to the king, who sat on his throne with his head leaning into a hand, tear-reddened eyes observing Legolas as he crossed over to him. He extended his arms to his son and lifted him onto his knee, and brilliant blue met slate grey as they locked eyes.  
  
'Is Naneth sleeping now?'  
  
There was a pause as Thranduil looked at his child, his heart close to breaking. 'Yes,' he replied gently. 'Naneth is sleeping.'  
  
Legolas leant into his adar's chest and cried with intense grief, Thranduil soothing his head and rocking him back and forth, tears streaming down his own face. He knew that Legolas was intelligent. He had known that he would have worked it out for himself, but that made it no easier on either of them. All they had left was each other, and they both knew this as they cried out their endless pain...  
  
He felt a cold, wet trail progress down his cheek, which made him frown. How he had managed to sleep he had no idea, but he fervently wished that he had stayed awake, and tried to swallow down the pain that blocked his throat.  
  
A hand seized his face in an icy grip, and he started, eyes snapping open to see his attacker. Saruman's black eyes met his own, a glowing light being emitted from his staff. Legolas froze as a sudden gush of terror clamped his senses. He pressed his back as firmly against the wall as he could, trying desperately to pull his head free from the hand of warg-like strength, but to no gain.  
  
Rational thought is not often associated with fear, and Legolas' rationality had disappeared completely from his mind. And that was why he tried to strike out with his free arm, forgetting everything. But Saruman intercepted it, gripping his forearm exactly where the broken bone was and squeezing, causing the Elf to emit a muffled cry of pain, as his mouth had been sealed shut by the hand which pushed both jaws together. Legolas screwed his eyes up in agony, teeth bared in a pained grimace.  
  
'Why do you cry, Legolas Greenleaf?' the wizard whispered. 'What thoughts could an Elf such as yourself have that install such need? Here where there are none to listen to your pains.'  
  
Saruman cocked his head at the Elf, a slight smile touching the corners of his lips in a sadistic manner. He could still see the salt tear trail down the soft skin – he had been there to see it when it had first emerged. He released the arm and raised his finger to where the tear had originated, tracing its course down the cheek with a sharp nail, pressing hard, and openly laughing with pleasure at the hiss of sharply inhaled breath at the pain. He watched the tiny beads of blood as they gathered on the scratch mark with apparent fascination, observing them as they grew ... rich, dark berries on pale snow.  
  
'But of course! You cry for your mother – a true jewel in the sun was she, brighter than the stars ... until she passed into madness, that is.'  
  
He saw the blue eyes flash with anger, and in that moment he knew that the spell he had used to install terror in the Elf had been thrown off by the sheer intensity of his rage. He enjoyed this total control that he had over the Elf, jerking his emotions from one extreme to the other, a puppeteer tugging at strings.  
  
He dug his fingers into the flesh a little more, feeling his nails sink further in – whether or not he had actually pierced the skin he knew not – grasping the bone as he pressed his fingers under the actual jaw bone itself, caring not for the bruising that this kind of handling would cause to the flesh.  
  
'Perfect creature,' he mused, now analysing the different aspects of the Elf: his bone structure, the muscle, the complete lack of natural blemishes. 'So ideal. It is not a wonder that the first Dark Lord chose your race to adapt ... such a perfect specimen you are...'  
  
Saruman released the jaw, and laughed softly as the Elf drew away, pressing as close to the wall as he was physically able.  
  
'Yes, such a perfect example ... it would be interesting to see if the Old Art could be ... reborn. I am sure that you would become the most elite of them all.'  
  
Legolas' eyes widened with terror, nostrils flared with icy fear, and it had nothing at all to do with the spell Saruman had cast. He knew what the wizard implied in his words, and it chilled his heart.  
  
The wizard rose to leave. He was too cold now, and had had enough of watching his breath smoke away, though seeing the effect his words had was something that he deemed would never bore him. He reached the door and turned before he closed it, saying: 'You really should guard your dreams better than that – anyone could read them.' With that he shut the door, still smiling to himself. Yes, it would certainly have been better for the prince if he had learned to guard his dreams. Much, much better...  
  
Gríma sat at Saruman's desk, loaded quill in hand, observing the practice sheet of parchment that he had laid out before himself, eyes studying the tengwar characters carefully with an eye for detail. If he was gifted at anything, it was forging lettering – but this was particularly difficult to copy: it had taken him at least twelve attempts to get the precise shape of one particular curve...  
  
He finished his study and went back to the fresh parchment before him, on which the letter that he was copying was taking form. To his left was Saruman's version, which he had written as soon as he had emerged from the dungeons, practically skipping with happiness. Gríma knew not of what had occurred down there, but, from the sheer glee in the wizard's attitude, he could tell that things had not gone the way of the Elf... definitely not, and they were about to get an awful lot worse.  
  
To his right was situated a letter which had been intercepted two months ago. It was about the drop in grape supplies to Gondor, something not overly important. The importance of this letter fell in the respect of whom it had been scribed by: Lord Daerahil of Mirkwood, and it was his characters that were being copied.  
  
The ink glistened as it was applied, making the material look like a spider had swum in the inkwell and then run all over it.  
  
Saruman hovered in the background, occasionally peering over the shoulder of the other to inspect his doings. "Yes," he thought delightedly, "this is certainly going to be of use."  
  
Gríma fixed himself upon the hardest task of all: the signature. This was also a trial with Men, but with Elves, he found, it was a completely different matter. Such a flurry of curves and pinnacles as he had never perceived before in so compact a space! If he did this wrong, then he was doomed to do the entire thing again: an experience that he deemed he could go through life without. He knew that, if he were to do it slowly, then it would look deliberate: a sure sign of a forgery. So he gritted his teeth and sent the quill nib to motion across the small space he knew he could occupy with the scrawled lettering, carrying through the action with an underlining that passed beneath the signature twice.  
  
He sat back to observe his art, only to have it snatched from before him by a long, thin hand which snaked out and jerked it back. Saruman stood and observed it with a shrewd eye, brows knitted. He suddenly leant over the desk, pushing the parchment back into Gríma's hands, a horrible glimmer in his eye.  
  
'Perfect!' With an evil, sadistic smile playing across his mouth, he gave the final command that was to promise inevitable ruin: 'Deliver it!'  
  
TRANSLATIONS  
  
Naneth – Mother Adar - Father 


	12. Chapter Twelve The Pebble that the Aval...

Chapter Twelve - The Pebble that causes the Avalanche  
  
He stood atop of Orthanc, one of the Wild Men next to him. As to what the man's name was he did not know nor care: he was here to be used, it was that simple. It was the savages' own concern that he was too stupid to see it, not Saruman's. The wizard gained a small amount of pleasure at the pure discomfort in the face of the other – he was equipped with no gauntlet to protect his flesh from the talons of the eagle, which perched on his left arm with its eye cast upon the wizard, a perfect sphere of black and yellow glass that flashed occasionally as the bird blinked. It held contempt for him, the wizard knew, but it was the only bird he had, so it would do, despite the fact that it glared at him in a manner uncannily akin to the Elf.  
  
The tight scroll was tethered to the birds' leg with a flourish of spider- like white hands, the eagle flexing great wings and chirruping in protest, threatening to bit the fingers, talons digging in all the more due to its malcontent.  
  
'Throw it off,' Saruman commanded. The Wild Man had not even the need for the order, as the bird took of on its own accord, happily spreading graceful wings to their full span at the take off, climbing rapidly until the hanging cloud swallowed it.  
  
Saruman cast his eyes to the ground, which lay so many feet below them. He could see the Ents, trundling about in their usual useless manner, idiotic fools that they were. Fools he could not be rid of – damn Gandalf for ordering them to guard him like a prisoner in his own home! No matter, they would all pay when he had carried through his plans with the Elf he held captive...  
  
Legolas was the foundation of everything he wished to do, the keystone in the bridge. True, he had been most – displeased - when that weak excuse of a human had arrived with just the one of the three he had wanted: three were far better leverage than one, especially when one of them was the heir to the Gondorian throne. Then he could have used them to force Gandalf to shift the Ents and free him.  
  
Wormtongue had suggested to him earlier that he take the tunnel out into Fangorn and thus escape. For that gross misjudgement he had received a clout from Saruman's staff – he would never abandon his home, all due to a few walking trees and a moronic wizard! No. It was much better to be here, where he could command the taking of lands ... especially ones in the North, namely Mirkwood. He had other Orc battalions in the mountains that he had directed to siege the realm of Thranduil ... and that letter he had just sent to the King of Mirkwood the Great would make the attacks all the easier. It was a sister letter to the one Gríma was to give to the Elf, only this one held no lies in it. The downfall of the House of Orophon was nigh.  
  
~~  
  
There it was, at long last: Edoras, perched upon the small hillock, an assortment of greys in the early morning mist, framed against the mountains which flamed in the new sun of the day, rays staining pink onto the white of the snow tops. But that was not something that Aragorn and Gimli paid any attention to.  
  
They had ridden non-stop since the stream yesterday, a full gallop being maintained through the night – the horses knew this terrain better than either of their riders, so Aragorn proposed it unnecessary to stop for the return of light. Quite frankly, he was happy to take the risk of a tumble; Legolas was still in requirement of their aid, no matter what the condition of the light.  
  
It was still a good three leagues to go before they would hit the city, so speed was not lessened, but more doubled, and this had nothing to do with the riders – the horses saw home, and were clearly desperate to reach the comfort of their stables.  
  
~~  
  
Battle after battle. Siege after siege. Loss after insufferable loss. Was there ever going to be an end to this constant misery? How much more could they deal with, how much more sufferance would they be able to put up with before his people collapsed? They were all stressed, and he had heard many a tear being shed over the losses that had been endured. It was inescapable that he should hear their pain, as he had ordered the entire kingdom to come to the palace for protection. Every home had been emptied of life, and so every life was now within the palace – one could not move for people. Still, it was better to be incapable of turning round without having someone else directly in your face than to have all of your subjects slaughtered...  
  
Thranduil gave a heavy sigh as he made his progression through the corridors to his chambers, weaving his way between numerous subjects whom did not bow. That was not through their own choice, mind – Thranduil had ordered it to be so, considering the act as being more of a hindrance than a sign of respect; everyone had better things to do.  
  
No matter how crowded and clogged his fine halls were, Thranduil felt as if the palace was a completely lonesome place. All because Legolas was not here. Here, where he should be, safe and with his people as their crown prince. Thranduil missed him dearly – it was so lonely without his presence ... he supposed that was because Legolas was so very much like his wife had been ... he looked like her, bore the same attitude to life as she did ... he even laughed like she had done, with the same smile, the same spark in his eyes, which were just as blue as hers had been.  
  
Legolas' facial shape had come from Thranduil: chiselled and hard-lined, with a firm, strong square jaw. He had also inherited his stubbornness from him, the King knew – actually, Legolas was even worse than he was, and the father had lost many an argument with the son, much to the amusement of the rest of the Court.  
  
He pushed open the ornate door, bidding the guards who stood guarding it so piously to go and find something better to do, a humourless smile on his lips. They bowed respectfully, and then moved off in the direction of the wine cellars. Thranduil could only chuckle at this: he too was a great lover of wine, as most of his people were, so he cared not that they went for a quick drink. He trusted them to not indulge too deeply, and they respected and honoured that trust.  
  
It was totally devoid of any mess in this room, which was more than he could say for the rest of the palace. Papers were piled neatly on his desk, small labels informing him of what they concerned. The piles were even placed in order of importance, the most urgent being on the right. Unfortunately, this was the tallest heap, and he had procrastinated for far too long. This was something that Legolas gleefully teased him over, the pristine tidiness. Thranduil had pointed out dryly on many an occasion that order was better than chaos, as he had seen Legolas' own papers to be, spread over the floor of his study. To this the Prince always responded with a dignified voice, eyebrows arced and eyes closed: 'It is an organised chaos, Adar.' Indeed, there had been a time when a new maid had tidied the Prince's room – something which Legolas had memorably got very worked up about, complaining loudly that he could find none of his documents requiring his immediate attention. He had, of course, not blamed the maid of this, but graciously bid her to not do it again, being the gentleman that he was.  
  
Thranduil parked himself behind the desk, eyeing the papers with his tongue prying in his cheek. He really did not wish to do this. Not at all. But he had left them for two days too long, and if he did not touch them now, then there would only be twice as many tomorrow, and he would have to call upon Lord Daerahil for aid.  
  
He stretched out a tentative hand and drew the first document before himself. "Concerning the western attacks from the Misty Mountains" glared at him, the characters standing out as though they were each little Orcs wavering primed blades at him. He really did not wish to tackle this now... something else would be readily received at the moment...  
  
The door reverberated as someone rapped their knuckles against the wood.  
  
Thranduil cast it a dark look. He really had not meant it when he had wished for a distraction.  
  
'Enter.'  
  
The door opened tentatively, and a messenger poked his head into the room, a decidedly worried expression on his fair face.  
  
'What is the matter?'  
  
'I have come with a scroll, my Liege, borne by an eagle carried on the South wind...' the voice of the other faded away into nothing, his mouth apparently dry, as he swallowed several times.  
  
'And?' prompted the King, a bite of impatience in his tone. He had a document to see to.  
  
'It – it bears the emblem of – erm – of the Istari, Saruman.'  
  
This took the King aback. He had not expected this at all: Saruman was now deemed an enemy of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth, and that included the Mirkwood Realm. Why? Why would he be contacting Thranduil of all of the various peoples? There had, in the past, been strong connections between Orophon's House and Orthanc, but those ties had died with the wizards' treachery.  
  
'Bring it forth,' he beckoned.  
  
The messenger advanced into the room, handing the scroll over to his King, offering a bow, and then stepping respectfully back, awaiting his next order.  
  
Thranduil broke the wax seal with a small snap, and progressed to read, the lettering spidery and thin, a slight wobble to it as though the author of the letter – Saruman – had been incredibly excited about something.  
  
As his eyes progressed down the page, Thranduil's heart stopped beating in his chest, and he slowly sank down into his chair, utter shock wiping his mind of all other thoughts, a tremble coming to his own hands.  
  
After a minute or so, he looked down into his lap, seeing with disbelieving eyes the lock of blond hair that had fallen into it, like fine strands of blood-stained gold, along with the very small but heart-breakingly vital piece of evidence: Salyria's mithril chain. Legolas never wore it, but it was always on his person. Always.  
  
'Send for Lord Daerahil immediately.'  
  
'But my Lord Daerahil is attending to the equipping of-'  
  
'DO YOU DARE DEFY YOUR KING? I DON'T CARE IF HE IS IN THE MIDDLE OF BATTLING A BALROG, I WANT HIM HERE NOW! THE LIFE OF THE PRINCE IS IN DANGER! FETCH HIM IMMEDIATELY!'  
  
The messenger blanched at the King's roar, giving a hasty bow before fleeting from the room.  
  
This was not what he had meant when he had wished for something else...  
  
It was not five minutes before Lord Daerahil entered, without knocking, as usual. At this present time, from what the messenger had said, knocking was not a necessity.  
  
'What is wrong, Thranduil?'  
  
The King merely held out the letter to Daerahil, and the other Elf read the dead look in the grey eyes before progressing to the document. He read it, dismay etched across his dark features. He swallowed before: 'He has Legolas, with the intention to kill him.'  
  
Thranduil said nothing.  
  
'Surely, though, it is not possible: I mean, how could he? The Prince would not – it just can't be naught but a lie, mellon nin.'  
  
'This is no lie,' Thranduil responded dryly, holding the bloodied hair and chain. 'None but Legolas has a chain akin to this.'  
  
Daerahil was in total shock. How could this be? True, the Prince had not been seen by any of Thranduil's court for nigh on a year. But capture? It just was not like Legolas to get caught - pursued, yes, on many an occasion, but actually intercepted? And why, out of all of the thousands of enemies that the former White Wizard had, did he have to capture this one? Daerahil had heard of the ailment Legolas had recently had at Helm's Deep, but, from what Lord Aragorn had said, he was well on the way to recovery...  
  
'What do you wish to do, Thranduil?' Royal formalities were forgotten now, as they often were between the pair – they had grown together, and each viewed the other as equal to himself.  
  
'Get three hundred men ready to ride within two hours, and make ready my horse.'  
  
'You will leave the realm?'  
  
'I will go to get my child back,' came the terse response. 'And you will come with me.'  
  
'As you wish.'  
  
TRANSLATIONS  
  
Mellon nin – My friend 


	13. Chapter Thirteen Unheeded Pleas

OK, a brief summery ... Aragorn and Gimli hit Edoras, and Gríma makes his – ahem – delivery. That is all I shall say about that, you'll have to read it to find out the whole thing.  
  
I can't safely say when chapter fourteen will be up, I haven't even mapped it out properly in my head yet, and I have dead-lines flowing out of my ears, so some time in the next week, fingers crossed.  
  
Right, then – please read, review, and, first and foremost, enjoy!  
  
Chapter Thirteen – Unheeded Pleas  
  
They heard shouts from within as they approached the city, and they did not have to slow for the gates to open. Intrigued eyes followed them as they rode up the road, but they did not react to them. Aragorn and Gimli had far more important things in mind than that.  
  
Théoden jogged down the steps to the Meduseld, clearly notified of their return by the guard that trotted behind him, confusion and concern engraved into his features, Éomer and Gandalf beside him.  
  
'What is it? Where are the rest of the men?'  
  
Aragorn dismounted Brego, walking over to the King with a heavy, urgent stride, looking into each pair of eyes of the most important men in the whole of Edoras.  
  
'Events have unfolded that I will not discuss out here in the open.'  
  
Théoden analysed the face of the interestingly older yet younger looking man keenly. He could see in those pools of grey that there was indeed some thing very, very wrong – he could see fear within those depths, something that he had certainly never held witness to before.  
  
'Come.'  
  
They made their way back up the steps with speed – though this haste was not nearly enough, Aragorn thought. Legolas could be dying for all they knew, and they were just sauntering along!  
  
The Hall of the King was completely vacant of any other life save for the lady Éowyn, whom was situated at a table, a dress in her lap that she was currently tailoring for herself. Aragorn nodded his head briefly to her as she looked up at him, not willing to let it span to more than that courteous gesture.  
  
Théoden ascended to his throne, the very picture of regal majesty, power radiating from him like water from a spring.  
  
'Tell me.'  
  
Aragorn laid into the story, opening the floodgates to release the torrent of information, right from the confrontation between Legolas and Gríma to their ride for the city. He left no detail untold lest it be of import, regretfully informing the King and his nephew of the demise of most of the riders sent with them on this scouting party.  
  
Silence dominated the room when Aragorn had ceased his account of events, in which Éomer pressed his face into his hands at the loss of so many good men. Gandalf remained silent, awaiting some word, some point at which he felt it wise to step in. He did not doubt that there would be such a time in the very near future...  
  
'We must ride out to reclaim them, my King,' Aragorn finally blurted. He was tired of standing around, taking no action. 'We must save Legolas!'  
  
Théoden raised his green eyes to those of the Ranger. Their expression was difficult for Aragorn to read, but he found the apprehensive knot in his gut tighten at their hardness.  
  
'No.'  
  
'No?'  
  
'I will not send out more to be killed – enough blood has been spent of late.'  
  
Aragorn was not hearing this. It was not possible – Théoden refusing to save Legolas? Why?  
  
'Legolas was willing to give his life to aid your people – he nearly did, and you will not save him in return?'  
  
'It is not worth sacrificing the lives of a hundred to recover a corpse,' Théoden responded quietly. 'Nor those other five, before that argument is put forward,' he added sternly.  
  
Aragorn resented that comment deeply. Passing Legolas off as being dead was something that he had not done himself, though the thought that he could be lost had niggled at him for some time. But his Elven name was Estel, and he would be damned if he were not to live up to it.  
  
'But you swore to the Elves that if they ever required aid you would give it,' interjected Gimli, rising from the chair he had perched himself on. 'Surely that covers their prince?'  
  
'I say again, Master Dwarf,' the King retorted, voice firm and harsh, 'I will not risk a hundred lives for one!'  
  
'You have suffered losing a child yourself, Théoden King,' said Gandalf quietly, coming forward for the first time in this argument. 'You do not wish for Thranduil to go through that, do you?'  
  
'Of course I do not wish it upon him! I wish that upon no one! But I am not going to do this! Please understand the position I am in,' he more or less pleaded. 'I cannot do this for someone whom is not even of my charge.'  
  
Théoden felt guilt nudge at his mind at the sight of Lord Aragorn, standing there with his jaws so firmly clamped together that he swore he could hear the teeth cracking. The man was clearly much aggrieved by his refusal, but he really could not afford to lose more men for the sake of a single life – it was a regrettable circumstance, but one which could not be helped.  
  
The grey cloak flurried out behind him as Aragorn took his leave, not a word parting his lips as he exited through the heavy doors, his feet taking him to the stables. He heard two other pairs of feet following him, and he knew to whom they belonged, so he did not turn. It did surprise him, however, when he was flanked by two people of considerably shorter stature than himself, the slap of their feet highly audible.  
  
'Before you say a word, Strider,' Merry said, all the severity there was to spare in the entire world dominating his voice, 'we have heard what has been said, and we want to come with you.'  
  
'Legolas is our friend too,' the voice of Pippin piped in. 'The Fellowship was formed to protect Frodo. As he is not here, then we must protect each other, no matter how much bigger they are.'  
  
Aragorn halted, his brow furrowed as he looked at the pair of Hobbits, both of whom now stood in front of him.  
  
'You three risked your lives to come after us,' said Merry. 'We deem it only fair that we return the gesture.'  
  
Their faces were set as he continued to scrutinise them. He did, after all, need all the help he could get...  
  
'You ride with Gandalf,' Aragorn eventually said, pointing to Pippin, 'and you with me.'  
  
The sweet smell of hey hit them as they entered the stables, and several elegant heads extended curiously to observe the five as they walked with such purpose through the building down the stalls. The stable hands gave respectful nods as they passed. Aragorn reached for the slender neck of Brego...  
  
'That horse is too tired to bare you any further this day.'  
  
Aragorn was shocked to say the least when he saw Éomer standing beside him, Firefoot awaiting him, the hands of the Third Marshal applying the tack as he spoke, his experience allowing him to gaze in other directions. The grey horse stood with a slight twitch to his sturdy frame, as though he anticipated action, ready to spring off at the tiniest hint from his master.  
  
'I though that you were Gandalf.'  
  
'Nay – Gandalf is trying to sway the mind of my King, but I think that his efforts are in vain. But I shall be riding with you, as will four of my men.'  
  
'You will disobey the King?' Aragorn asked, an eyebrow raised in askance, and a small smile on his lips.  
  
'This is not disobedience,' the other answered, now rubbing the neck of his horse. 'In order for there to be disobedience, there must first of all be an instruction, and he never said anything to me of staying.'  
  
'You find dangerous loopholes in the rules,' Aragorn commented dryly.  
  
'Yes – loopholes that will probably tighten about my throat before this is through...'  
  
Two fresh horses were brought forward, ready tacked for riding – a fine, spirited chestnut and a far more docile dapple-grey. Aragorn did not need to ask who was to ride which horse.  
  
***  
  
He raised himself to his feet in a wobbly fashion, pressing a hand against the wall to steady himself. That area in his back really hurt, but he denied it any of his attention: there was no way of treating it, so there was no need to worry about it, as worry would make no difference what so ever.  
  
He was parched, days having passed by without any water, though his pride refused to let him call for any. But if he did not have water soon, he was going to die; it was a cold fact of nature. He could go for longer than an adan without liquid sustenance, but not that much longer, and he was fast reaching the limit. By the Valar, he was thirsty...  
  
He walked a little, carefully placing his feet on the dirty floor, just to exercise his legs a bit. They protested, cramp tensing his calves from sitting on them for so long. He even heard clicking in his joints – this did not even happen to such an extent when he was confined to bed rest for lengthy periods. Mind you, he had slept on his back then, not his legs.  
  
There lay another thing that bothered him: the way he had slept when Saruman had taken him unawares. Elves did not sleep with their eyes closed unless they were ill, and he prayed that he was not about to suffer another relapse of the fever – if he did it would kill him for sure ... there was no Aragorn here to save him from it. He did not feel right, not right at all, which, he concluded, was probably due to his environment: it was enclosed, and he felt claustrophobic; darkness pressed in from all sides, oppressing his heart; his body was still trying – in vain – to recover from his severe detriment, and was in dire need of something to keep him going, something that he knew he was unlikely to obtain within a close time to then.  
  
The door opened, catching him off guard – he should have heard Gríma coming. For Gríma it was, baring, to Legolas' great surprise and relief, a jug and bowl of something, which was placed at his feet, rather than handed straight to him.  
  
Gríma stepped back, observing the Elf in the light of the torch one of his followers from Edoras carried, watching him lift the jug and give a tentative sniff. He grinned as he caught the Elf's suspicious eye.  
  
'There is no poison in it, you have my word.'  
  
'And what, exactly, is your word worth?'  
  
Gríma cocked his head at the opprobrious face, in which a pair of eyes filled with such malice burned at him, two workings in glass so sensitive that they trapped more light in a blink than any mortal eye during a lifetime.  
  
'You really hate me, don't you?'  
  
'No,' came the response, 'I do not hate you – I dislike you intensely.'  
  
'I see.' That was all he had to say to that statement. "You will hate me by the time I leave this room," he could not help but think to himself, chuckling mentally. O, he was going to enjoy this part...  
  
Legolas gulped down the water – it had clearly been left to stand for a while, by its taste, but that did not bother him in the slightest. Better to drink old water than nothing at all. He emptied the container, caring not about the fact that he guzzled the contents noisily.  
  
He cast a sceptical eye on the soup, not allowing it to leave the swimming pieces of meat. He could smell the bowls' filling, and it was no meat that he had ever eaten before, and he had a huge scent vocabulary when it came to such foods. He had eaten practically everything within reason – and there was only one time that he had had the severe misfortune to smell this particular meat during a stage of imprisonment that he had undergone by the hands of Orcs. It made him wretch dryly, and Legolas flung the dish across the room, his hand covering his mouth.  
  
Gríma laughed, a low sound that echoed hollowly in the dungeon.  
  
'Is that not to your taste, Thranduilion?'  
  
Legolas did not grace that with an answer, but gave Gríma the most scathing look he was capable of. "No," he thought bitterly, "rotting human flesh most certainly is not to my taste!"  
  
Gríma cleared his throat and looked at the corners of the ceiling – or where he thought the corners were, anyway, as the torchlight did not reach that far. Finally he turned his gaze back to the Elf, the vague hope that he would have stopped glaring at him by now proving to be a waste of thought.  
  
'I have something for you,' he began, drawing out a tightly folded piece of parchment. It gave him a slight twinge of satisfaction to see the Elf's eyes flicker briefly with interest. 'We intercepted an eagle flying from your homelands – it was heading for Edoras, but it is just as well we got it, seeing as you are not holding residence there.  
  
'I am very sorry,' Gríma said as he handed the letter over to the other, trying as hard as he could to keep his voice level and sincere. The pair of blue eyes snapped up to his face at these words, and he was startled by how very – naked he felt under their penetrating stare. But they lowered again as the fingers unravelled the piece in his hands, and it was Gríma's turn to inspect the Elf's face as he read...  
  
"Dear Prince Legolas,  
  
It is my greatest grievance as friend of your family and a lord of the royal court –  
  
Legolas felt his gut knot at these words. He knew this handwriting – it was that of Lord Daerahil, indeed a long-standing friend of his family, trusted advisor to the King – his father – and almost an uncle in Legolas' eyes. This was not the type of letter he had expected...  
  
"-to inform you of the tragic demise of your father, Thranduil the Wise, during an..."  
  
The letter continued, but Legolas did not read the rest. He could not breathe, his chest feeling as though it had been clamped in an iron cage. He sank to the floor, his heart crushed inside him. A gasping sob reverberated through the dungeon as his grief started to set in, the letter falling from his hand as he let it go.  
  
Gríma had asked Saruman how he would know if the forgery had worked or not, to which the wizard had answered with an unhelpful: 'You will feel it when it happens.' He had resented that comment at the time, seeing it as dismissive. But now, as he stood there with the Elf on the floor, he knew what Saruman had meant. He did feel it. It was a sensation that he had never been subjected to before, and he could safely say that he did not like it. Not at all. He could not describe it fully, but it was like a drop in the atmosphere, a sudden and violent wrench at his soul. He felt depression weight itself on his shoulders like a waterlogged cloak whose clasp he was unable to release. Gríma had to get out of this room – "It will be better out of here," he conceded with himself.  
  
'Come,' he ordered his servant. Looking at the other man, Gríma saw that he felt it too, just by his facial expression – confusion and sadness could be read in it. He decided to risk a last glance at the Elf. Legolas, he found, was looking right at him, and the eyes of the immortal scared him considerably. They were tear-filled, yes, but they were also completely desolate of any emotion save one, and that was intense pain. Yet, besides that, they were dead, empty...  
  
Gríma forced his feet to move him out of the door. "It is this room that is doing it, it is that spell," he kept telling himself fervently. "It will pass, it will pass, it will pass..."  
  
They left the chamber, the heavy door clunking shut as the key turned the lock. But the feeling had not passed at all, and he found that he had not enjoyed that as much as he had thought he would. His heart was a dead weight in his chest ... was this what guilt was like?  
  
It was irreversible what he had done, he knew that, and he also knew that the Elf was doomed to die – what was it Saruman had said? The heart of an Elf was the beings' greatest asset, and also their greatest weakness – to strike an Elf in the heart was to wound him beyond aid...  
  
There came a long, low wail of despair and brutal pain that he knew originated from the Elf, and he fled up the spiral staircase to get away from the noise, hands clasped over his ears in an attempt to shield himself.  
  
TRANSLATIONS  
  
Adan – Man Estel – Aragorn's Elven name, meaning 'Hope' Thranduilion – Son of Thranduil 


	14. Chapter Fourteen The Calm

****

Hello, all! Firstly, many gracious thanks to my glorious reviewers! I thank you for reading and reviewing – it is you lot that provoke me to write *I've just come off of CoE having found four new reviews, with many a call for chapter fourteen, so here I am writing it for you!

Secondly, I'm glad that what Gríma did got you all so riled – I felt a bit iffy about that part, but it seems to have been well received, so – yeah - great!

OK, I'd just like to say that I've been a little naughty: there's a double time-scheme going on in here. I'm really sorry, but without it the story would not have worked, thus the whole playing with time thingy… My main excuse is that if Shakespeare could do it, then so can I *thinks of _Othello_ and sighs as she remembers the joy of that particular play.*

To all who have begged me – nay, _threatened_ me – to not kill Legolas, I give an evil grin: we shall see exactly how far this goes. He he he. *Does a little dance on high from Cadbury's chocolate with crunchie bits in it – favourite chocolate, I can't help it!* SUGAR RUSH!!

Anyway, onwards with the story! I'll not do a chapter summary, there's no point… here we go! 

Chapter Fourteen – The Calm…

Hooves pounded at the earth, sending tufts of grass flailing into the air. Eight horses, all in all, with ten riders. The sun was setting, throwing the ominous shadows of the Misty Mountains out over the plains, the grass ablaze with the glory of the fired sky.

***

His feet sounded dully on the stone of the floor as he made his way to the heavy oak door, grating slightly in the wet dirt. He was alone, this time – really, no one was actually aware that he was down here at all: he had not consulted Saruman about it, nor any of his small Rohirric faction. Completely alone.

The key turned in the heavy lock stridently, echoing through the narrow corridor in an omnipotent manner, a din of a noise that resounded in his ears several times before he was done, finally pushing the weighty wood out of his way, watching the slither of torch-light widen on the floor of the dungeon, a stream of light fast becoming a river of orange glow.

The cold hit him in the face as he stepped in; but it was not just the degree of temperature… There was something missing from in here, something that had always been present when he had come down on numerous occasions to try and rile the Elf. What ever it was – or had been – it was gone, and he felt the loss of it deeply.

His pale eyes found the body of the Elf as the light lapped over the still form. Legolas was lying down now, no longer sitting, his shackled arm restrained high above his head. As Gríma approached the being, he was struck by the lack of response that he would normally have been greeted with – some resentful, derogative comment, formed within the space of a second. But there was no such reaction, and he thought instantly that he was sharing this room with a corpse. He advanced right over, looking down upon Orthanc's most important captive, and noted, after a time of observing, that the chest rose and fell. It was a shallow movement, a barely adequate breath to sustain a cat, never mind something so large as an Elf.

Gríma looked at the face of the other, hoping to see some kind of reaction. But there was nothing. The eyes were open. There were no tears in them any more; it was almost as though he had passed beyond grief, and so they were now unseeing, with deep, unfathomable pain clearly in them, and yet not so: it was as if they were dead. The blue orbs no longer glimmered in the flickering glow of the torch – which was now lying on the floor – but remained dull, lifeless. It was as if the Elf had lost total interest in the world about him, preferring the solitude of his mind to the company of reality.

He placed the jug he had had tucked under his arm in front of the Elf, along with the plate of dried fruit and salted meat. He admitted to himself that the trick he had played two days ago had been particularly nasty, getting that Orc he had come across to go down that tunnel and butcher a corpse for the purpose of disgusting the Elf so much. What had it achieved, in the long run? Actually, what had any of this achieved at all? Just another war for Saruman to play in, all for the sake of taking a piece of land that he was never going to get anyway. 

"It has finally happened," he thought to himself. "Saruman has lost his mind to madness – how could he expect to take the Woodland Realm with no army?"

Yes, the letter that Saruman had composed could have taken down the King, but Gríma thought it more likely that it would only serve to stir the wrath of the Elves, more than anything else. And even if the King had died, there was always a lord to step in – it was the same with any other country. Whether or not the letter would have an effect like his own forgery was having on this Elf was something he was bound to never find out. He knew that father and son were extremely close, but exactly how far their attachment would take them he knew not.

Saruman had told him about elven grief, and it was something that had fascinated him to no end when he had been told of it: how was it that a broken heart could slay a being of such strength? But now he saw it first-hand, he was not so sure that he liked the idea. Not at all.

He extended his hands out to the shackle, and turned the key to it in the small lock in order to release the chain, just to give out more slack. He had to take the wrist of the other in his hand to steady it while he carried this task through, and it shocked him considerably when he found the flesh to be icy cold. This was one of the things Saruman had told him of, this cold. Elves did not feel the cold, and thus were never actually cold – unless they fell into a frozen lake or something of the sort, thus making bodily temperature-drop an inevitability. No, this was a sign: the sign that the Elf was dying, descending into the depths of extreme grief, the soul slowly drowning.

The chain released, the weight of the arm dragging it down as it fell heavily to the side of the still body. The Elf had not even restrained the speed of the drop of his limb, allowing it to make a sharp impact with the floor without batting an eyelid.

Gríma stared for a time at the Elf, and there was still no movement, no sign of life besides the fact that shallow breaths continued to be taken in every now-and-again. He headed off towards the door, leaving the torch – but he stopped, just before the threshold, glancing back at the ageless face. Finally, the Elf gave a sign of life, lifting his blue eyes up to Gríma's own. The glance held no interest in it what-so-ever; all Gríma could see was an unbearably intense misery, before the previously brilliant blue eyes lowered slowly down again.

He left.

***

Thranduil rode at the head of the column, his captains at his side, with, of course, Daerahil. Their grey steeds, so white they shamed fresh snow, galloped with all speed, their endurance far greater than any horse reared by Men, and the Elves were well aware of this. Combined with the last factor and the fact that the horses' riders were of such a light weight, the animals ran with the swiftness of a rather huge free herd.

Three-hundred men, all fully armed and ready for battle, prepared for Death to take them if that was what was required to save their prince. Thranduil knew this perfectly well as they took the roads south, having parted with the dark eaves of Mirkwood two and a half days ago – they had wasted no time, the King not willing to allow the demise of his son thanks to the fact that they did not hold a swift speed on the long journey.

The Great River Anduin had presented a brief problem for them when it came to crossing it: if they had gone on foot, the matter could have been simply solved by shooting an arrow with rope tied onto it into a tree and then tying the other end, providing them with a walkway that only one of the Eldar could step. However, that was not an option that their current situation held open, and so it was necessary to find a shallow and calm enough stretch of river to swim the beasts across. This they had eventually found, having to ride steadily down a steep ravine to get to the water itself, and then riding out into the cold depths after a scout had declared it safe.

Now they were cutting through roving, immense plains of grass, spanning for almost as far as the eye could see. But, to the west across the land of Rohan that they now traversed, lay Fangorn and the end of the Misty Mountains, their destination, and, ultimately, where Legolas was.

"By the Valar, I pray that we get there in time," Thranduil thought, once again rousing the horrible dread that had niggled at him for so long, temporarily put to sleep by the requirement to focus his energies on carrying the journey through rapidly and efficiently.

'He will be fine, mellon nin.'

Thranduil started at Daerahil's words, drawn out of his reverie by their statement. Had it been that obvious what he was thinking?

'I hope you are right,' the King sighed.

'Of course I am right: Legolas is far too stubborn not to be – something he gets from you, may I add.'

Thranduil gave a brief smile at his life-long friend, who returned it, confidence gleaming in his bright green eyes.

Daerahil's attention was drawn away suddenly, his eyes to the east. Thranduil saw it too, a sight that made his breath catch.

'Isn't it beautiful?' asked the Lord.

'That it is, my friend. It has been at least half a millennium since I last saw a sight like that.'

Wild horses, free spirits of Rohan, galloping through the lands, owned by no man and not permitting themselves to be. A herd of magnificent animals, all different coat colours, parting the land that they in truth owned, not the King of Rohan. A large black stallion headed them, mane flowing regally, tail held almost as high as his proud head, socks of white showing themselves one occasion when the horse stopped ahead of his charges, rearing and prancing in the sun.

'Rohan knows not how lucky she is,' stated Daerahil, his voice filled with awe at the display set before his bright eyes.

Thranduil diverted his gaze back to their destination, a black spike against the greys and whites of the mountains: Orthanc, and, more importantly, Legolas. He spurred his own horse to even greater speed, feeling the animal respond beneath him with magnificent power blooming from the muscles as though his horse was actually trying to match the black stallion in his masters' eyes. Thranduil gave a few murmured words of praise as they charged on, some fifteen leagues still to traverse before this was over.

***

His black eyes were fixed on Gríma as he entered the study, having passed Saruman a dark look before reaching for a bottle of wine that sat on a side table. It was one of the few left, though Saruman refused to drink it, saying that it was 'eastern tripe'. Gríma had pointed out dryly that it was fermented grape juice, not sheep stomach lining, to which the wizard had responded by shattering his goblet with a quick swipe of his staff. Because of this, Gríma was now forced to swig from the bottle.

'I know where you have been,' the wizard stated in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

Gríma ignored him, taking a couple of gulps.

'There is no point, you know,' he continued. 'The Elf _will_ die.'

'It was the wrong thing to do.'

'But you did it all the same, didn't you?' the wizard hissed as he rose from his chair. 'You knew what would happen, because I told you. I trust that he took all to heart that was in the letter?'

Once again, Gríma failed to answer, yet Saruman was able to read the silence as a 'yes', and gave a malicious chuckle.

'Good. It will be interesting to see how _Daddy_ reacts to his little boy's doom.'

"'Daddy' will not be very happy," Gríma reasoned in his mind. "In fact, I would not be surprised if he was rather upset." That was an understatement, and he knew it was, but it did not make him care.

"Daddy" was leading his men through a peculiar wooded area, which spanned about three miles around the outer walls of Isengard.

They had come to a halt outside the gateway into the circle of rock, the only entrance into Isengard that they knew of, and Aragorn watched it with a sceptical eye. They had formed no plan, had no means of entry, and no men. "Right now," he thought, "would be a very good time for a captain to ride past with a willing, no-questions-asked squad."

'What are you thinking, Strider?'

Merry's quiet question brought him out of his pointless fantasies with a start, and he looked down to see the face of the other looking right back, eyes deep and serious.

'That we are set to have a very interesting time before us, my friend.'

Merry nodded to this, turning his gaze around to eye the gate suspiciously.

'This is the only means of entry there is,' he commented. 'Believe me, I know. The Ents broke parts of the wall down, but not enough to be able to get a horse through – there's no point in trying to remain inconspicuous, because Saruman has windows all round the tower, so he'd see. He could just – I don't know – blast us with his staff, or something. He'd be able to pick us off, one by one, like we were rats in a barrel-'

'-You certainly live up to your name, don't you?'

Merry shrugged his shoulders at the Rangers' wry comment. 'I try my best.'

A loud noise echoed through the still air, proud and shrill, regal and oddly stirring. It was a solid three weeks since Aragorn had heard a sound like that, and it caused him to sit up in the saddle. It was answered by more, the harsh cries of birds. To his even greater surprise, it was responded to by a deeper, fuller, much louder cry, and he turned to see Éomer with a horn to his lips in answer to the horns that Aragorn knew belonged to Elves.

The man laughed grimly at Aragorn's amazed stare as he set the horn back down to his side.

'We are in need of allies,' he shrugged.

"Indeed we are," Aragorn thought.

'I don't understand,' muttered Merry. 'Whose horns are they?'

'They are those of the Elven King of Mirkwood,' Gandalf informed him.

'The one that Bilbo used to tell us of in his stories? _That_ Elven King?'

'The very same,' smiled Aragorn. 'And he will not be very happy when he arrives.'

Thranduil had been shocked to say the least when someone not of his own kindred had responded to his horn. It was a horn of Rohan; he knew that from five centuries ago when the sound had last reached his ears. And it had come from not a mile before them, which was something that puzzled him considerably. How many were there? Would they hinder him? Why had they responded to his horn? Actually, why were they there in the first place? He hardly thought that they were there for the fun of it. Still, they were due to find out in less than ten minutes, that he was sure of.

Daerahil was having the same premonitions himself, watching the path that they were treading, carefully guiding his horse over roots and rocks that jutted out in their way as though he trees really did not wish for them to pass without breaking a few limbs first.

'I would dearly love to know who sounded that horn,' he passed to his King. 'And I would more than love to be out of this forest.' That, he knew, was the first time he had ever said anything like that about a forest before. He loved trees and, ultimately, forests – but this one gave him an odd feeling, and he was not quite so struck on it. It was as though a heavy air of malice hung about the place, dominating both himself and his animal, who shifted nervously under him, though he soothed his mare as much as he was able. The fact that she was not responding to the reassurance of an Elf was certainly something that Daerahil took note of.

'We are set to find out.'

Horses were visible before them now, eight in total, all of different hues, all with an interesting variety of riders. Actually, Thranduil was able to see all of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth barring his own in front of him.

One of the Men jumped from his mounts' back, bowing to him in an Elven fashion as the King halted his horse, dismounting himself.

'Mae govennen, Thranduil.'

Thranduil returned the bow and gesture.

'It is long since our paths have crossed, my Lord Aragorn, yet I believe that we are both here of common purpose.'

'That we are, my Liege, though I know not how it fares in the Tower.'

'Yes, that is a piece of information that I am somewhat keen to hear,' replied the King. He turned to Éomer, recognising the garb of the other as being grander than that of the others dressed akin to him as being a Third Marshal – nay, _the_ Third Marshal. It stunned him that he remembered this from so long.

'It was your horn that answered mine, was it not?'

Éomer came to the ground, bowing low to the Elf, startled by how very different and at the same time how very much the same the King was to his son.

'Yes, my Lord.'

'Yet you are not the King of Rohan – tell me, why has he not deemed it appropriate to accompany you on this quest to recover my son?'

Éomer blinked at the Elf once, taken aback by this quiet question. The voice had been polite enough, but there sounded a dangerous undertone, and he was intelligent enough to guess that relations between the two realms – though never strong at all – were under threat.

'He sent me in his stead,' the Man replied, not allowing his eyes to blink or falter as he looked the other in the face, knowing full well that the Elf would be able to detect the lie if he gave him even the slightest clue.

But Thranduil nodded, clearly convinced that Éomer was not being false of tongue.

'Very well,' he said evenly. 'I have three-hundred men accompanying me, and I think that it is high time that we used them.'

TRANSLATIONS

Mae govennen – Well met


	15. Chapter Fifteen The Storm

Chapter Fifteen – The Storm

****

Hello all! Profuse apologies for the lateness of this chapter – it's been a bugger to write, and that writers' block was of no help what so ever. Still, over it now, though my head hurts from thinking about this too much…

Right. This is the chapter where everything kind of explodes in your face. Could prove to be interesting for our dear friends rubs hands together gleefully oh yes, very interesting indeed…

Dear ol' Thranduil never expected this one, trust me – he he he. No, he didn't expect this one at all, preciousss sorry, couldn't resist that one.

OK, the next chapters are going to come in pretty quick succession now after this one, so the end of Equilibrium is nigh. There is another one on the way, though: it's basically a gap filler for when Aragorn falls over the cliff, following Legolas and Gimli, their thoughts and feelings on the matter, all of that. And then after that one, I have ideas for another one, just with Legolas and Gimli basically going home, post Aragorn coronation. And _then_ after _that _I have _another_ idea that I plan to follow. The other two will be short, but this one is set to be like Equilibrium long, pre-WotR and very interesting, packed with OCs and, naturally, Legolas in a verrry sticky situation, involving a highly talented assassin, whose attention he manages to catch, an extremely important baby, and a massive man hunt…

He had heard those horns. And he knew perfectly well what they heralded. Elves. He was getting tired of them, really. Elves were strong, and ready to endure just about anything – but whether they would be able to endure _this_ would prove to be interesting. Oh yes, very interesting indeed…

Odd. It was so – _strange_ – how they managed to get themselves in the most remarkable situations and predicaments ever known to their kind. Of course, there was what Frodo and Sam were going through, but he classed that as being completely unparalleled to what happened to them: they got themselves captured by Orcs, made friends with walking trees, and guarded dangerous persons at their own gateways with naught to fight with but clay pipes. Quite bizarre, actually.

But now he was sat with a muster of some of the most powerful men he had ever seen, if not _the_ most powerful men he had ever seen, waiting in silence as Thranduil held council with his captains, conversing in very fast Sindarin of such a great speed that he could not even decipher a word of it, let alone a sentence.

Pippin heaved a sigh, and cast his eyes up at the walls of Isengard between the boughs of the trees. He could not see a single one of them. That was the strange wonder of the Elves – they could just disappear into their surroundings, melting into them like clear ice into water. It had startled him at first, seeing them do this: Legolas had done it on many an occasion, blending back into the background, a shadow of the shadows, submerging into invisibleness during his watches. Many a time had the Elf materialised before him and nearly killed him with surprise. But now he was able to see how useful it was to be capable of doing such a thing, as he scanned with no real dedication for the Elven archers that he knew lined the stonework. Fifty in total, apparently, though he had never actually seen them go up to their positions, despite the fact that he had looked out for them, keen to know what the other Elves of Mirkwood were like.

Waiting. There was nothing Merry loathed more in this kind of situation, sitting on the edge of something that could turn either way. They did not know what the reaction Saruman was due to give would be like, nor did they know whether force was going to be an absolute necessity – it would not prove a problem if it was; they had a small yet incredible strength behind them in King Thranduil's companies, that was for sure…

The Elven King's captains disbanded, riding back and shouting orders to the soldiers, with one of the captains galloping his horse to the wall to command the archers. Thranduil himself went to stand his horse by Gandalf, Lord Daerahil by his King. Aragorn – acting under what Merry supposed to be some unspoken command – rode to the other side of the wizard, Éomer and Gimli taking up position at the side of Brego. As they now sat, all of Isengard was open to their view … especially the Tower.

'Is it time?' Merry asked, absent-mindedly fumbling with the hilt of his elven dagger.

'Yes, my friend,' came the heavy response. 'I do not know how this will turn, mind, so be careful and do NOT leave this horse lest I bid it of you.'

Merry gave a small nod of acknowledgement to the words of the other, receiving a slight shock as Brego jolted forward with the other horses of the line, the sound of marching feet behind them.

Saruman stood out on the balcony, observing the row of riders, closely followed by marching Elven soldiers in tightly-formed ranks, their captain riding before them. There were not that many of them – a hundred or so – not enough to oppose his own forces … oh yes, they were set for a nasty surprise when he sent his own men out…

His roving black eyes fixed on someone that caused his brow to arc: Thranduil the Great of Mirkwood. He had not expected to see him alive after the letter he had written to him informing him of the death of his son. The King did not appear even marginally grieved: he looked incensed, actually.

The soldiers stopped their march a quarter of a mile away, the line of horses continuing to proceed until they were little more than twenty feet from the foot of the Tower.

'Mae govennen, Thranduil,' Saruman called, giving a distinct bow of ridicule.

'Do not DARE to mock me, Saruman the Weak-' the eyes of the wizard flashed at this '-I come for one thing and one thing only: my son.'

'You mean the _body_ of your son,' Saruman sent back evilly. 'You believe that I will surrender him to you?'

'I am here, thus he is of no more use to you,' the King growled, threat rolling in his voice like thunder in a sky of shadows, his eyes dark slate-grey and brimming with the promise of death if his demand was not met to his satisfaction.

'He is of no use to _anyone_ as a corpse – save, perhaps, the Orcs…'

Thranduil tried to surge his horse to the Tower, emitting a bellow of rage, fuelled by the wizard's high laugh – but he stopped when Daerahil grabbed his arm, pulling him back and offering words of quiet comfort to his friend. As his reaction was stemmed by the other Elf, Thranduil drew his slender mithril sabre, wielding it high above his head, horse rearing and plunging, a perfect reflection of the mood of his master.

'SURRENDER MY SON TO ME OR TO MY ARMY, SARUMAN, THE CHOICE IS YOURS!'

'Army? HA! That is not an army: 'tis a rabble of fools that stumbled across an armoury – just like their King of Fools!'

'Do not be a fool yourself,' Gandalf advised, speaking for the first time. 'Give him back, that is all we ask. Thranduil is right: you have no need of him, and you wield not the power to contain him any longer.'

'O, believe me,' Saruman sneered. 'There is nothing left to contain.'

Thranduil's cry to commence the attack was echoed by a crack, as though of thunder, as Saruman smote his staff on the stone of Orthanc, to be shortly followed by the shrieks of Orcs, piercing the air like the deadliest of arrows.

"Oozing out of nowhere," it seemed to Aragorn, as all of them turned their mounts to see where the noise was coming from. Orcs and Wild Men, spilling out of tunnels, apparently, with no real formation or regularity. "A mass of ants with no real purpose," he thought as he observed them – but then he rebuke himself for using such a poor simile: they clearly _did_ have a purpose, and that was to attack the Elves, to quash them with their sheer strength of numbers if nothing else.

The companies of soldiers formed new, seamless ranks to maintain a front on both angles from which the swarms came: either side of the gate … and right under the noses of the archers. A hail of shafts arched over the distance between the wall and the enemy, every arrowhead finding a mark – they were clearly all myrmidons of Legolas'; in fact, he knew that his best friend had been responsible for the training of many of the King's archers. Legolas, a doyen in the field of archery – and in the realm of friendship…

Even Legolas, however, would have found it to be the impossible to stem the flow of this torrent of foes, there were so many, and they clashed with the soldiers, caroming off of the face of the defences and then rebounding, the metallic song of swords sending their mournful voices into the air, so heavy that it boded rain.

Their horses plunged forward as their masters spurred them, swords drawn and ready for the fight – the King would not suffer his men to be left without mounted aid, and, as he rode his fine grey stallion into the midst of the battle, he blasted his horn to command the charge…

Several other horns echoed in the trees in response, causing a flock of carrion crows to take flight in fright, a black cloud of impending doom – but for whom?

The riders and their steeds impressed Éomer considerably: the horses, of such a hue they shamed snow, were proud and strong – yet they were completely without tack. That was one of the things that took him back the most: he had heard of Elves riding bareback – but in a _cavalry charge_? He could not see how the riders were able to control their animals with such an incredibly militate manner. They moved as one, no spoken command telling them where to strike or at which points to divide; it was just all so _fluid_, so precise and preternatural in the way it happened.

The cavalry division had sectioned itself off: half to cut off the tunnels for the archers to finish any who were foolish enough to even contemplate coming out, and the rest to join the fray, cutting through the hundreds of their enemies like hot knives through butter.

Gimli had fallen off. Again. Why he always fell off of horses during battles he knew not – but it did not bother him in the slightest. He was, in fact, glad that he had: it was considerably more difficult to hack at Orcs with a battle axe from the height of an animal of the size of Firefoot – Arod had been bad enough, but this one stood considerably taller at the shoulder, making his swings a lot less effective. Down here, though, he had now reached the grand total of twenty-eight … that definitely meant that he had beaten the Elf at their game when he totalled all of his kills. Arrows against axes indeed!

Merry was finding this to be a most interesting experience – he had little choice than to sit and watch as Aragorn created new holes for Orcs and Wild Men to take into serious consideration about how it affected their health before they died. The opportunity to swing his own sword did not openly present itself to him, as there was simply no room for him to do so without cutting off a major part of Aragorn.

So he watched as Aragorn plunged Andúril into their gathered foes. It was Aragorn's art, Merry concluded as he observed an Orc lose his head. The way he used the weapon as though it was an extension of his body, never wavering or displaying any fatigue as he hewed his way through the chaotic, leaderless enemy.

Saruman snarled as he viewed the battle, damning Elves and their superior military skills compared to his own forces. He had no archers, cavalry, or captains at all: just a mass of imbeciles that were little more than troglodytes of various assortments, a pack of rats with terriers set loose in their midst. They were dropping like wet leaves in a late autumn storm, and he turned on his heal in disgust and abandoned notions when the remainder of his 'men' fled for the gate. He hated Elves.

The original riders re-grouped, the short-lived battle won with few losses to their side. Six was viewed as a few to the others, that was, save for Thranduil and his subjects, all of whom would morn their loss … after they got Legolas back.

'He has descended into madness,' Éomer said as he eyed the Tower. 'Only a fool or a maniac would send out a leaderless army into battle like that.' He cast his green eyes over the corpses behind them, lip curling in disgust. 'I shall order my men to gather the Orcs and make a pyre-'

'They shall not be alone with that task.' Thranduil barked out an order in Sindarin, to which twenty of his soldiers responded, falling out of their ranks to aid the men in their duty.

'They all speak Westron, so there will be no communication hindrances.

'And now,' he averted to the most important matter of all: 'let us go and see a wizard about my son.'

'At last!' Gimli grumbled, as Éomer helped him to slide from Firefoot's back. 'I have something to tell that Elf.'

Twelve soldiers came at the bidding of their King, all armed with bows and swords. Whether they would be needed or not was another matter.

Aragorn stayed silent. He had heard the words of Saruman, and he could feel doubt heavy and unmoving in the pit of his stomach. What if they were too late? What if the wizard had meant it when he had said they had come to fetch a corpse? Thranduil seemed to have paid no heed to the Istari, but that did not mean that he had not – the King was renowned for his unwavering hope, but this had to be the greatest test he had ever had to endure, and there had been a … _something_ to his tone just then which said to Aragorn that even _his_ hope was faltering.

Gandalf proceeded ahead of the group up the stairs. Now that they were here, the knot of trepidation that he had previously ignored for so long niggled at his mind with more persistence, and it was with a slight reluctance that he passed his staff over the door, murmuring the password softly under his breath. The heavy black wood swung slowly inward, not a sound being emitted in their movement.

Thranduil was the first to enter, not caring about any possible attack that might come from within, his brisk movement forcing his soldiers and the others to hurry after him. He flung open a pair of high doors – and stopped. They had come to a large, rounded room, with four sets of exits, and a throne perched on a high diesis at the far end … and there sat Saruman.

The wizard leapt to his feet and down off of his diesis, issuing a screech of anger at this intrusion, staff being swung in a momentum that was to promise some doom for those that enraged him so – but Gandalf, pushing to the front, gave his own staff a huge thrust, a cry of straining effort parting from his lips.

Saruman stood, apparently battling to control his staff, exertion clear on his face as he puffed now and again, face reddening as his hands were gradually being twisted.

The staff ripped free of his hands and cruised over to Gandalf, who snatched it from the air and instantly brought it down across his own knee, splintering the wood into shards of broken power and corruption, dull and naked against the pitiless blackness of the stone floor.

'There,' said Gandalf, looking directly at a livid yet distinctly beaten Saruman. 'Not very agreeable, is it, when someone does it to you?'

Saruman snarled at this open patronisation, glaring at all that now surrounded him, and he spat when the Elven soldiers formed an arc behind him, swords keenly trained on him.


	16. Chapter Sixteen The Strength of Grief

****

POSTING SPREE! Right, everyone: here is where we find out whether he is alive or not … he he he brushes hair back from her face to conceal the horns. Well, have fun reading this; as always, many gracious thanks to my reviewers and readers alike: without you there would be no Equi- OKI, enough of that, on with the story!

Yep, definite posting spree going on here – profuse apologies for the slowness of these chapters – our internet broke, so I had to wait ages before I could get online…

Anyway, here's #16, ready for you all. As always, please read it review it and ENJOY IT – if that is possible with this one does he die? Does he live? I know and you don't, ha ha ha ha ha ha – you'll just have to read it and find out, won't you?

Chapter Sixteen – The Strength of Grief

Saruman glared daggers at Thranduil as the Elven King came forward to stand before him, grey eyes filled with a dangerous anger as he surveyed the other with eyes no warmer than a frozen lake.

'Where is my son, Saruman? Tell me, or the Valar help me, for I shall not be held accountable for my actions.'

Defeated as he was, Saruman laughed - a high, cold sound that chilled even the most hardened out of those present.

'There will be no point in finding him now, O mighty Thranduil,' he replied mockingly. 'There is no sense in the living chasing after the dead.' He laughed maniacally again at this as the Elven King's face paled at his words.

One of Thranduil's balled fists found its way to Saruman's jaw faster than any had perceived possible, and the King did not even pause to see the wizard clasp at his face as he stormed out of the room, calling his son's name, Aragorn and Gimli close on his heels.

Gandalf sighed inwardly at the pained desperation in the Elf's voice. It had not been a King talking with Saruman just now and outside before the battle - it had been a father, throwing aside all that he was for want of his child. The King wanted his son back, but Gandalf felt that he would not get him - alive, at least. He knew what Saruman had become, and what he was capable of, and feared that he did not lie about the fate of yet another member of the Fellowship.

Aragorn was hard-pressed to keep up with the stride of the King as he passed through Orthanc, and Gimli found it even harder, having to trot to keep up with Aragorn. Thranduil went with the same brisk pace, paying no heed to the other two, sticking his head into every chamber, kicking down any door that resisted him, still calling feverishly after his only child. This hurt, seeing the King so frantic with worry for his son's life, hearing his cries as he thundered through the Tower.

It was during this traversing of the Tower that they stumbled upon Gríma Wormtongue, cowering in a corner beneath a table; indeed, Aragorn would never have guessed that he was there, for there was no sound that he could hear as they entered the study. Quite clearly, Thranduil did, for he crossed the room in a short series of lengthy, purposeful strides, and threw the table aside with a great thrust of his arm. This revealed the snivelling little Man, who whimpered as the front of his shirt was gathered in a steely grip and he was jerked to his feet, his pale eyes - which held such terror as Aragorn had only seen in men going to war - fixed on the slate-grey ones of the King.

'Where is Legolas?' This had not been hissed as a question, but more of an if-you-fail-to-offer-a-suitable-response-you-will-die.

'I - I know not-'

Gríma's head slammed against the wall, and he gave a gasp of pain and fear, his feet scrambling uselessly to find the floor to ease his neck – but he found no floor, just air. He had thought that Legolas had strength - but, at that moment in time, he was really beginning to find out exactly how strong angered Elves were, to his great discomfort. Indeed, what Legolas had done had felt like a child feebly hitting a parent compared to what his head and neck were now experiencing.

'There are lies in your eyes,' spat the King. 'You know of whom I speak, I see it in your face. I ask again: where is Legolas?'

Gríma blinked to try and get a greasy strand of hair from his eyes before replying: 'He's in the dungeons.'

His body was thrown to the stone floor by the King, and he tried to scramble away - but Gimli, who had remained ready should his opportunity arise, slammed a foot down onto the Man's cloak before he could get anywhere. Gríma immediately turned over onto his back, like a wolf offering submission to a stronger animal that it had foolishly challenged, belly up.

'Please,' he sobbed, 'show me mercy! It was the wizard that made me do it, I swear!'

'Do?' Thranduil's voice was of deadly quiet. 'Do what?'

Gríma instantly realised that he had spoken foolishly, and he knew that there was no way out of the situation he had just placed himself in - those storm-grey eyes told him so under no uncertain terms.

'He wanted him to be broken-' His voice cut out at the growing glow in the King's face.

'And?' Thranduil bent over the quaking figure, an intense snarl over his fair face, threat in his stance. Gríma shrieked, covering his face with his arms.

'-Spiritually. I tried many things, but none of them worked alongside Saruman's spell, so Saruman said I should give him a letter from one of your lords saying you had died in battle.'

Thranduil's lips parted slightly in horror, and the fist was lowered slowly to his side. He stepped back, as though Gríma were some kind of highly poisonous snake. His heart felt as though it had stopped beating in his chest and had instead sought to occupy his throat. He knew all too well the connotations of what this could mean for Legolas.

'And did you know when you said this of what it could do to him?'

Gríma dared to look the King in the eye as he answered the question with a chilling: 'Yes.'

Gimli's foot lifted to permit Gríma to find his feet again – though he hardly could for fear of the King, whose sword was now drawn and centred on his stomach.

Aragorn stepped forward, heaving Gríma to his feet. 'You will lead us to him,' he said quietly. He needed no threat, and so used none.

'Move.'

Gríma did as he was bid by the Elf, passing constant glances at Thranduil over his shoulder, not daring to look straight lest he ended up with a blade through his gut.

They followed him closely as he led them through the labyrinth of inter-connected chambers, a system that they never thought existed. They passed through several rooms filled with charts and further maps - there was even a room being used as what appeared to be a temporary armoury. And it was in this 'armoury' that Gríma approached a wall instead of a door, and whispered something to it softly. To the astonishment of all watching, a seamless door opened out into the room, permitting entry to a small landing and a narrow flight of spiral stairs, with a globe of some magical form lighting their way with a feeble - yet oddly adequate - glow.

Gríma gave those behind himself a contemptuous glance before he began his decent, closely followed by Thranduil and Gimli - Aragorn had paused briefly to collect a torch from a bracket.

The smell offended Thranduil's senses as he followed the Man down into this dark hovel. It was the stench of death, only some time after the actual decaying period. He did not understand it, but he felt an almost overwhelming sense of intense misery in this part of the Tower, which, he found, was only thrown away a little by the torch-light; were it not for that, he felt that it would have engulfed him. Lives had been extinguished here, he knew that they had … had one of those lives been that of his son?

The stairs ceased after they had gone down some one hundred and fifty of them (one hundred and fifty six, as Gimli had counted), levelling out into a short, dead-ended corridor, out of which three doors were able to open.

The cold was one of the things that hit Aragorn the most - a deathly chill, which he deemed that no Man would survive were he down here for a lengthy period. The smell was not so intense for him as it was for Thranduil, but it was enough to make him wish he could breathe the outside air.

Gríma lead them down to the very end of the corridor to the last door. It was of heavy, solid oak, capable of withstanding the test of time, it appeared. It was probably over a thousand years old, Thranduil reasoned, just before he turned expectantly to Gríma, who stood giving him nervous glances.

'Are you not going to open it?'

A grin twisted Gríma's face as he replied: 'I have not the key.'

The Man stumbled backwards into the wall as Thranduil launched for him. Thranduil would have killed him there and then if Aragorn had not restrained him.

'No, my Lord! He will pay for it, but not now.'

The King looked into the grave face of the Ranger before he gave a brief nod of acknowledgement to this, shooting Gríma a look that told him that there would be no mercy when he got to him.

He released himself from Aragorn's grip to inspect the door. The wood, to his surprise, was not quite as strong as he had originally perceived, as a few water-swollen splinters came away into his fingers as he touched it. True, it was an incredibly dense block of wood, but he felt that it would not be able to withstand him and his anger - after all, he had made hardened warriors quake under his wrath. It was time to see if he could have this affect physically.

He turned and ran to the opposite wall - Aragorn and Gimli stood back sharply to get out of the way, confused at why he was running at the solid stone. Was it madness? But Aragorn understood as the King leapt at the stone, his feet out before himself. Thranduil pushed off of the wall with as much force as he could muster, and twisted gracefully in the air, feet towards the oak door. There was a deep boom as they kicked with incredible power against it, and a great deal of mortar and loose stone chippings rained down from the frame.

The King came down to his feet lightly, and fell back as the bits continued to fall. As soon as they had desisted, he resumed his position for another run - only this time he was joined by Aragorn. The Ranger gave the King a grave smile, to which he nodded once with appreciation, and they both followed through the action together.

A considerably larger amount of debris came down this time, and the door shook with the force.

'Again!' cried Thranduil, and they did, Man and Elf united in a single cause, bound into a powerful allegiance by the love they held for the one behind the door.

Upon the fifth attempt, the wood caved in, no longer able to bare the brunt of the onslaught that two pairs of feet with a purpose hailed down upon it. It crashed to the stone of the floor some five feet away from where it had originally barred the way, and all four entered, Aragorn holding the torch that he had briefly given to Gimli. But even with the steady glow of the flame not all of the corners were thrown into light, and still maintained their contemptuous shadows which glowered at them with loathing.

What the light did show, however, was who they were looking for, and Thranduil gave an agonised cry at the sight. Legolas lay at the bottom of the wall, still and unmoving, eyes closed.

Thranduil ran to him, a scream of rage escaping his lips as he smote the chains with his mithril sword, causing the links to part as though they were made of candle wax rather than iron. The chain fell over the body of the younger Elf, who did not react to it at all.

Aragorn hung back in the doorway. He could sense that there was something very wrong, and deemed it best to leave the King alone with his best friend, as fear for what was devastatingly possible nestled in his chest like a parasite.

Thranduil scooped his son up in his arms, holding him close. A trembling hand brushed some fine fair strands from his only child's lifeless, cold face. Such cold, soft skin, broken by shallow cuts, numerous in consistency.

'Legolas. Legolas, answer me,' the King pleaded with the still body in his arms. 'Please come back. Don't leave me. Don't you leave me, too.' His tears flowed freely down his cheeks as he held his only child closely to himself.

Gimli shook his head to himself in bewilderment. 'But he breaths, Aragorn - I saw his chest rising.' To the immense surprise of the Dwarf, he saw, as he looked upon the Ranger's countenance, tears streaming down Aragorn's face. He frowned in confusion. 'I do not understand.'

Aragorn turned his eyes down to his friend. 'It is Elven grief, Gimli,' he explained, his voice restrained with the pain that twisted his soul. 'Legolas was told that his father had died. The King and his son were very close, and the news devastated him so much that it will kill him. He will not come back.'

There was a finality to Aragorn's tone that told Gimli that this was indeed the end. After they had been together for so long, had braved so many different tests of spirit and courage, even cheated Death - in the cases of his companions, anyway - it was hard for him to accept that such little things as words should be the downfall of one he had deemed a mighty warrior. Gimli turned his head back to the King and the body he held so tightly in his grasp, rocking to-and-fro, like a parent trying to get a baby to settle.

'Come on, Legolas; you are not fated to follow your mother and brother - come back to me. I cannot go on without you.' Thranduil buried his face into the fair hair of the Prince of Mirkwood, his tears running into it, dampening it.

There was still no response, and the King lifted his head and looked down pleadingly into the face of his one remaining son. His face was of ashen grey, and the lips were chapped from becoming too dry. There was no flinch from the feather-light touch of Thranduil's fingertips, no gentle sigh as one would expect from one who slept. Nothing - he was just there, no more than that.

'Legolas - my little Bellas - awaken to me, please.'

Something tickled his awareness. Something that sounded so far away, and yet was not quite so. Interesting. But not quite interesting enough. He continued to walk along his path. He did not know where it led to, but he still knew that it was his path. Especially for his use, and his only.

There it was again - that thing that tweaked at his consciousness. It made him turn this time, though all he could see behind him was murky - there were no solid shapes there, nothing was certain. A world of uncertainties and pain and fear that he need not suffer. He had had enough of it, and that was why he was going this way, to join his family. It was incredibly unfair of the world, really, that all four of them should be there - but then he corrected himself. He was not there yet. "You will be soon," he promised himself. "Soon enough."

'… Bellas.' There it was again, and he properly stopped this time to gaze into the shadows. He knew that word and what it implied. He had always hated it when his father had used it on him. It had been used on him since he was an Elfling - especially when he had been an Elfling - after his brother and mother had passed to where he was heading to now. His father would use it in jest, knowing full well that he resented it. The fact was it came from behind him in the shade rather than from the lighter area. Why would his father call to him from behind? Surely it was this way that he had to go? But then he though that, perhaps, he was going the wrong way…

Legolas gave what he had originally thought to be the right direction an unsure glance, just as his father called to him again. It was definitely coming from the shadows, filled with desperation and pain. That he could not understand - were not the Halls of Mandos supposed to be places of purest bliss? Why would his father be experiencing distress? If his father was indeed in trouble -as it sounded to him - then Legolas had to go and aid him.

He rotated his body now, and, breathing quite deeply, he allowed his feet to carry him back into the night, permitting the cold cloak to be weighed about his shoulders…

His eyes opened reluctantly, and he found himself gazing with glazed sight at his father's face. There were tears gleaming in the poor light, though Thranduil's eyes were closed. He looked absolutely devastated, which was what Legolas could not understand at all - he was here, was he not?

'My little Bellas,' the King muttered, his voice choking with tears.

'Please don't call me that, Adar.'

Thranduil started, which was something that Legolas knew to be very difficult to achieve with his father. That installed a small amount of triumph into his features.

The King looked down into his son's bleary eyes - something that he had thought he would never be able to do ever again, and his tears came all the more for pure relief. His only child was not dead; but he did look incredibly confused as he said in a quiet, tired-sounding voice: 'Are these the Halls, Adar? I feel that I have been here before, and there are no light memories that I can fit to this place.'

Thranduil smiled as he replied: 'No, Legolas, these are not the Halls of Mandos.'

'But then that means - that you-'

Legolas did not complete his sentence as he threw his good arm about his father's neck, crying openly into the King's shoulder, and this action was rewarded by Thranduil returning the gesture, all of his worry and pain and fear and, ultimately, sheer joy, shredding itself from his heart in the form of tears. Father and son reunited at last.

Legolas at last drew away, staring at Thranduil's beaming face, eyebrows furrowed slightly.

'But Lord Daerahil said that you had been killed in battle - in that letter…'

'No, son,' replied the King, shaking his head slowly, his face fixed with anger. 'It was a forgery.'

'A forg-' Legolas stopped his words, turning his fair head towards the wall where Gríma crouched, and his face contorted with pure rage, teeth bared in a terrible snarl. He sprang to his feet - to Thranduil's shock - just as agile as before; it was hard to tell that he had bordered on the verge of death just a few seconds before.

Legolas stooped and grasped his father's sword from the dirty floor. "Interesting," he thought, "how this weapon which has been crafted to fit my fathers' hand exactly sits so comfortably in my own." But it was a fleeting thought, little more, and his boots sounded heavily on the floor as he crossed it with a determined stride.

Gríma's jaw dropped in terror. The Elf was coming for him, he could see that plainly enough, and there was murder in his eyes. Gríma turned his own upwards imploringly at the man Aragorn, who stood besides him. But there was no sympathy, no warm kindness in those deep grey orifices into the man's soul. He looked with no compassion at Gríma. Perhaps, he realised, he had pushed Aragorn son of Arathorn too far when he had caused such harm to his best friend.

And so he scuttled up and ran out of the door, surprisingly fast for one of such a meagre frame. Legolas took flight after him. There was no hope of him letting Wormtongue go, not after what he had gone through because of him, and this was what powered him, giving energy where it had been deprived of through lack of food and water, forcing muscles that had been cramped up to work against their will. They worked very well, he found, for muscles that had become stiff through too little exercise. But that did not matter, for they worked under the sheer force of his emotion, whether they complained against it or no.

Gríma propelled himself up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. By the Gods, he was going to die if the Elf caught up with him, he was sure of it, and he knew that that was almost a certainty. He had seen the Elf run, but that had only been for a second and in the dark; he had heard that they were immensely fleet of foot, which was something that he fervently wished was a piece of inaccurate information.

He was out of the dark and into Saruman's temporary armoury, and already he could hear the footfalls of the Elf, coming horribly closer at a rate that he did not care for. And so he flew from that chamber, and into the next, then the next. He briefly contemplated hiding – but deemed that a foolish notion: if the Elf that was so hot on his trail was anything like his father, then hiding would simply be another form of suicide.

Legolas took the stairs three at a time. He was going to get him, like a sporting dog after a rat. Well, by the Valar, this rat had squeaked its last…

He hared through the building until he reached the main chamber, into which he burst to see an assembly of people, all of whom turned their gaze to him, all wearing expressions of vague surprise. But Gríma did not stop, the idea of heading out of the furthest door which lead to the outside world in his mind. He could no longer hear the Elf behind him, and thought that, with some incredible streak of luck, he had lost him, and so he continued towards the door, not slowing. He reached out his hands to fling it open…

He never expected the pair of feet that delivered such a powerful kick to his side that he was propelled across the floor, the wind knocked out of him.

Legolas had thrust one of the numerous side doors open, knowing perfectly well that Wormtongue was going to attempt to get out of the Tower. Interesting, really, how he managed to gauge so accurately as his feet connected with the Man's rib cage. He landed gracefully, and then practically threw himself at the Man, who had tried – and failed – to get away by scrambling. The sword blade was pressed against the pail skin of the throat, Legolas' teeth bared in an angry snarl. He was going to kill him, by the Valar he was going to kill the conniving ba-

'Legolas?' That had been the voice of one of the Hobbits – he had not noticed that they were here. 'Legolas, what are you doing?'

He lifted his head at this, the snarl no longer masking his face. His blue eyes fixed with those of Pippin, then Merry, and his brow furrowed slightly. They were both looking at him, shock and confusion in their faces. He also took in the others: the two wizards, Éomer with some of his men, and a small section of the Mirkwoodian army. They appeared simply happy that their Prince was alive, no matter whose throat he held a blade to – but it was the faces of the Hobbits that made him look at Gríma Wormtongue again. He blinked once and immediately rose from his position, taking the sword with him, though it left a crimson line across Gríma's jugular – though the Man had a lot to be thankful that a red line was all that he had received.

Thranduil, Aragorn and Gimli erupted into the room, only to halt themselves as they saw Legolas, the sword held loosely at his hip, and the form of Gríma Wormtongue scrambling to the door in order to flee.

'You will not kill him, ion nin?'

Legolas looked up at his father at these words, and Thranduil was struck by how pallid his son really was. The bruising and cuts stood out all the clearer against his grey skin. "By the Valar, he looks like a corpse!" thought the King.

'No, Adar: there has been enough bloodshed of late to stain the world ten times over – I shall not add his blood to that red ocean that I see in my mind.'

Gandalf smiled as he watched the dishevelled, dirty and thoroughly beaten Elf in front of them all, a proud twinkle in his eyes which he knew Legolas saw as he briefly passed his own gaze fleetingly over the wizard. He was quietly pleased with Legolas' mercy; he had not expected it from him, and could not say that he would have been shocked or angry had the life of the poisoned rat been taken, but pleased all the same. "Good lad," Gandalf thought, his eyes saying it even though his mouth did not. "Very good lad."

So many faces that he knew in one area! Whence had they all come? Why were they all here? And, what was more, why were they all looking at him as though he were a rock that had sprouted legs and was currently dancing around the floor? Then he thought on the latter for a bit, and realised that his appearance must have altered somewhat since friendly eyes last saw him.

The warriors bowed to their crown Prince affectionately, to which Legolas responded with a bow himself – though it was much shallower than he wished it to be, for there was some pain in his chest that restricted such an action.

'Mae govennen, my Hobbit Masters.'

Merry and Pippin bowed after their fashion as Legolas turned to them, realising properly for the first time that Legolas held a high title – though he never used it – and suited it. In all of his dishevelled and bloody form, Legolas commanded respect as these warriors bowed so very deeply to him. He was someone clearly loved by these Elves, no matter what state he was in.

'We were worried about you,' Merry commented, choosing to break the silence that had befallen the chamber.

'We thought you'd been fed to a pack of wargs or something-'

'-It looks as though you were!'

Legolas chuckled at this. "No," he thought. "I don't suppose I look very good at all."

Had he said that aloud, all in the chamber would have declared it as a gross understatement, and they watched with quiet horror as Legolas made to move to the other end of the room, face paling even further – if possible – than before…

His adrenaline-rush was over and departing from his bloodstream as quickly as it had entered, leaving him and sapping all energy from him. His vision began to blacken and the room swayed, Legolas feeling suddenly vertiginous and highly nauseous as the blood failed to get to his head properly. His legs knotted together, causing him to trip – and he knew nothing more as his mind fleeted away, a songbird finally released from a cage…

Aragorn had sprung forward to grab his friend before he could fall, and the Elf was already unconscious when he gently lowered him to the floor, throwing his own cloak to the stone to soften it a little for his companion, laying Legolas' head in his lap … he had thought it funny that Legolas had leapt so abruptly from being near death – clearly the adrenaline had worn off and left him in his true weakened state.

'NO!' Thranduil shot forward, grasping Legolas by the hand and slapping it vigorously. 'He cannot be allowed to sleep! It will kill him in a state like this!'

'Kill him?' questioned Gimli, forgetting that he was talking to a king. 'Don't be ridiculous! How can it possibly kill him?'

'Because, Master Dwarf,' Thranduil responded, voice ringing with terseness, 'He has very nearly passed into the Halls of Mandos, and he has had not a thing to drink or eat for too long – Námo is never happy to let those who come to those mighty gates leave so easily.'

The slapping was not working, and neither did the calls of his name by numerous persons close to him – Gimli had a bash at using jibes in order to insult him back to consciousness, but that failed to work like everything else.

'I have an idea,' the Dwarf blurted suddenly, and he drew from his belt a small flask. 'Try this.'

He handed it over to Aragorn, who gave him a sceptical look as he unscrewed the top.

'What is it, Gimli?'

'Don't ask questions about it, it's hardly poison – give it to him!'

Thranduil tilted Legolas' head up a little more, parting the lips to allow whatever it was Gimli had issued them to get to his son's mouth. Aragorn tipped the flask slowly, watching Legolas' face closely for any sign of change…

A frown flittered across the wan face before the chocking began. Legolas' eyes snapped open, and he flipped over onto his side, throwing out his good hand to support himself as he coughed up the liquor onto the polished stone, spitting as much out as he could. Thranduil and Aragorn could only smile broadly with relief at each other, while Aragorn gave his friend some support at his shoulders, deeming it unwise to help him cough up the alcohol by slapping his back lest the other had sustained any new injuries there – which seemed highly likely, seeing the bruising on his face.

'What did - I ever do - to you?' Legolas asked Aragorn hoarsely, gasping to recover his breath after his coughing fit, working his mouth constantly as though such an action would abolish the taste from it.

'Do not blame me, Legolas – I got it from Gimli.'

Legolas turned his accusing stare to the Dwarf, who was standing with his arms crossed and a haughty expression on his wizened face.

'What was that, Gimli?'

'Finest blackberry brandy, of course!' came the proud response. 'I found it at the Hornburg. What did you think it tasted like – apple juice?'

'_I_ thought it tasted like something I'd rather not say.'

Aragorn and Thranduil chuckled at that comment, and Aragorn placed the flask to his own lips to see just how bad it really was. He took one swig before he too spat it out onto the black stone – much to Gimli's annoyance.

'Will you two stop wasting my brandy!'

'Wasting it?' said Legolas with a raised brow. 'We are not _wasting_ it at all: we are saving both you and anyone else that has the misfortune of putting it in their mouths from poisoning, that is all.'

'Does anyone else care to aid us in our quest to save Middle-earth from this abomination?' Aragorn raised the flask theatrically to the rest of the room, an action which was greeted by laughs from most of the others in the chamber.

'Give me that,' Gimli growled as he stepped forward to snatch the flask back with the cap, tucking it into his belt safely away from any marauding hands of either Man or Elf.

Legolas decided that now was as good a time as any to get up, so he began to gather himself, trying to make ready for getting to his feet. He did not physically feel that ready for it, and he could easily have laid back and gone to sleep … but this room – the whole Tower – was oppressing him: all he was able to see were the colossal black walls of stone, penning him in, sucking in his hopes and igniting his fear of closed spaces, which was now heightened after his duration in the dungeons. He felt as though the walls were closing in on him, crushing him…

He found his feet sharply, so quickly that his head swam again – but he ignored it, shooting for the exiting door, throwing it open in his desperation to get out. He practically flew through the short corridor and out into the open.

It was raining, yet the sun had found a window in the clouds through which to send her blessing to the earth. Rain and sun, both soaking him. He stopped a sizable few feet from the Tower, face turned upwards to welcome the pelt of the cold drops and the cleansing rays on his skin. He could feel the filth being washed off of his skin. It gave his heart a reason to beat properly, replenishing his soul like water over near-parched grass, fresh air filling his lungs, sweet honey eliminating the bitterness of captivity.

TRANSLATIONS

Mae govennen - Well met

Ion nin - My son

Bellas - Strength


	17. Chapter Seventeen What we are, what we ...

Chapter Seventeen – What we are, what we need

'Legolas! Come back inside before you catch your death out there!'

Legolas stopped smiling at Gimli's words, passing the Tower a dark look. Aragorn saw what he knew to be fear deep in those blue eyes, cleverly shrouded as the emotion was, and he detected from Thranduil's catch of breath that he could also see it. But he soundly doubted that the others would pick up on it.

Thranduil stepped out into the mud, closely followed by Aragorn.

'Merry?'

Aragorn's call was responded to by a 'Yes?' from within the Tower.

'Did you and Pippin not say that there is a storeroom stacked with food somewhere along the walls?'

Two smaller figures appeared from behind Gimli, both with expressions of keen interest on their bright faces.

'Aye,' responded Merry, 'that we did – why? Are you hungry?'

'No, but Legolas could do with something.'

'Alright then,' Pippin chimed in. 'We shall escort you there.'

They waited for the pair to reach them before the five commenced to the walls of Isengard, keeping a steady pace as they traversed the mile. Legolas had passed Aragorn a brief, appreciative smile; his thanks for not making him go back. Aragorn had returned it, clapping the Elf lightly on the shoulder as they walked, and not daring to show his concern at the slight wince Legolas made at the contact.

The horses raised their elegant heads at their arrival at the wall: they had been permitted to stray a little to nibble on the scanty amount of grass that there was available, and their masters gave their Prince and King respectful bows accompanied by relieved smiles, to which Legolas bowed and smiled back. Aragorn reached the animal he had been loaned to ride, taking a small pack from the saddle, giving the horse a firm pat on the neck, and then rejoining the group.

'Here we are,' said Merry proudly, and the others looked to where he gestured with his sweeping hand. 'Saruman's private store – well, it was, anyway…'

They all stepped through the entrance, gazing about them at shelf upon shelf of food. There were barrels set along the stone-flagged floor, filled with fruits and wines, and some with dried meats of various sorts. A fireplace was situated at the end of the room, suitably dried after the invasion of the floodwaters to allow a fire to be kindled in it. There was a solid table right in the centre, made purely of oak.

'Legolas,' began Aragorn in a serious tone, 'take off your tunic and shirt.'

Legolas' heart sank. He had completely forgotten about his hurts until now.

'Aragorn, I-'

'-Do it, ion nin.'

Thranduil stood just inside the doorway, his face stern yet kind at the same time. He knew perfectly well that Legolas would not dare to refuse him over something like this. True, they had had disputes occasionally that had surely been heard in Gondor over patrols and things like that, but _never_ over anything which heavily involved the health and welfare of the other.

Legolas sighed heavily, unfastening the clasps to his tunic with one hand. He was not offered aid, for which he was eternally thankful: he called for help only when he really needed it, and he had to be in a dire situation for that to even cross his mind.

'What would you like to eat, Legolas?' Merry asked, already beginning to scale the shelves, closely followed by Pippin, who sported a large empty basket. 'There's apples, carrots, bread – no, actually, forget the bread, it's gone mouldy – oh yes! and there's a wonderful leg of smoked ham up here…'

'Some ham would be much appreciated,' Legolas called up, a smile on his lips despite himself as he laid the shirt and jerkin to the side, right next to the two vambraces, observing with a sigh the many small sealed pots and bandage strips that Aragorn had set out on the table beside him.

'Before we continue, have you sustained any broken bones minus the obvious?'

'No,' Legolas lied outright, only to receive a searching look from the Ranger, which he met with steady eyes.

'Fine, then – give me your arm.'

Aragorn took the limb from Legolas' lap, his hands firm yet gentle, cupping the elbow with one and running the other lightly over the still livid bruising. He began to gently press into the flesh that was of so many interesting colourations as to make a southern songbird jealous. He could feel Legolas' discomfort at this, noting that he had not taken a breath for all the time he had been doing this.

'Not yet mended,' Aragorn stated, giving Legolas a smile, which the Elf returned with a flicker of this mouth.

Aragorn uncapped a pot that was larger than its companions, sending an interesting, oddly lifting scent into the air.

'What have you mixed the _athelas _with, mellon nin?'

'Goose fat, poppy-seed oil, and spring-grass,' Aragorn replied simply. 'It makes a paste that helps take down swelling and bruising, as well as dulling down pain – wonderful for this kind of injury. And the _athelas_ will help the bone along with knitting.'

Legolas smiled properly now. 'The hands of a King are indeed the hands of a healer.'

Thranduil stood observing the treatment of Legolas – the paste of the Ranger would surely be spent come the end of this: the bruising was so very _consistent_ over the body of his son. And he struggled to keep his emotions under check when he saw the deep, horrible wound to Legolas' side. "So," he thought. "_That_ is the 'poisoned wound' Aragorn spoke of in the letter." The fact that he had not been there when it had happened to comfort his child during his agony pained Thranduil deeply, an anger that he had within at himself burning at him.

Aragorn re-splinted the arm after rubbing his salve over it, using a piece of wood he had earlier whittled in preparation for this and the fresh, white bandages, careful not to make it so tight that it cut off the circulation.

'Hannon le,' Legolas offered as his arm was given back to his lap.

'Not a problem.'

Aragorn's brow furrowed heavily as he turned his attention to the rest of Legolas' body.

'Where are these from, mellon nin?' He touched the patch of very, very angry looking skin under Legolas' arch of the ribcage, at which the Elf hissed and drew back a little.

'Legolas, this is a very bad one-' he continued to feel the area gently, soon to stop after Legolas made a small, throaty noise in his pain. '-It feels to me as though the tendons have been ripped!'

'More likely than not,' came the response in a dry, slightly restrained voice.

Aragorn looked up into the blue orbs of Legolas' eyes to see the sad, crooked smile.

'What happened?' he asked again, softly.

'I said something to Master Gríma that upset him considerably-' he cut off and gave a short, mirthless laugh. 'Too weak to do anything himself, he sent down those men whose acquaintance we had the delight of making in the Golden Hall…'

Aragorn's face paled at this, before he gave a soft prompt… 'This is not the work of a fist, Legolas – what did they use on you?'

'Knuckledusters.'

'Knuckl- oh, Legolas.'

'I know!' the Elf laughed, somewhat highly and unnaturally, his gaze diverted from the face of his friend. 'Of all the things…'

Aragorn perceived the newly reddened eyes as they appeared to find something intensely interesting in the wall behind him, avoiding eye contact with both Man and Elf. He desperately wished to comfort his friend, to hug him. But he knew that such a thing would not be at all appreciated in front of Merry and Pippin, who had paused in their task to look down on their Elven companion, horror across their faces.

Merry exchanged a quick glance with his companion before he commenced with the assignment of climbing again to get the ham, Pippin following closely with an already bulging basket – but his hand slipped as he grasped at a bit of the shelf and he missed. Trying to regain his balance, he caught a large pot with his arm, sending it flying down to the ground below them. It shattered, sending bits flailing into the air. Legolas gave a start, jumping in his surprise, spinning round to see what had caused the crash – an action that consequently hurt him as he moved the bones that he knew were broken in his ribs.

Aragorn and Thranduil looked at each other. True, they too had been shocked by the noise, but not to such an extent as Legolas had been: that was a reaction that none had anticipated. And now both looked on as Legolas shook slightly…

'Sorry…' Pippin said quietly, as though the ensuing silence was something about to die and meriting the utmost quiet and respect.

'Master Hobbits,' began Thranduil, taking on his authoritative tone that was commanding yet kindly. 'I was wondering if you could take that food to some of my men? Not all of them will take it, but I am sure that there will be a few whom will be glad of it.'

'Certainly, my Lord,' Merry bowed – a somewhat dangerous feat considering the fact that he dangled from a shelf some twelve feet in the air. He knew perfectly well that the Elven King wanted them out of the chamber, and he was entirely happy to oblige – he had come to respect the ancient and powerful being. They clambered back down, Merry aiding his friend in the carrying of the basket, and they together passed out of the stone chamber, giving Thranduil a respectful bow, Pippin filling a free pocket with apples as they went.

Legolas still indomitably investigated the wall with his eyes, not daring to raise them to either those of Aragorn or, indeed, his father. He was furious with this display of emotion that he was exhibiting – it was most unbecoming of an Elven warrior of his rank and calibre. Yet all of the pain that he felt – physically and mentally – was too great a weight for his soul to bear any longer without collapse. All too much…

A gentle hand held his chin, pulling his head up tenderly. Still he avoided the eyes of his father, knowing full well that those slate-grey orbs were on him.

'Legolas,' Thranduil uttered softly. 'There is no shame in feeling, ion nin.'

He blinked, feeling the betraying touch of warm water on his cheek as it fell from his eye. He dared to risk stealing a glace at the older Elf – at his father – the eyes of the other soft as they held him lovingly.

'You have been through a lot in the past few of weeks,' Aragorn uttered softly. 'More than any other would have been able to survive. But _you_ have. You possess a strength of character that I am yet to see rivalled, Legolas Greenleaf. This is no display of weakness.'

Thranduil cupped the face of his son in a hand, carefully avoiding the bruising and cuts, holding the averse gaze of Legolas.

'I am so proud of you,' the King voiced quietly yet strongly, and Aragorn could hear the fierce pride in his tone. Thranduil was not one to lie, especially to one so dear to him as Legolas was, his only living kin.

Legolas buried his face into the hand, finally succumbing to the offered comfort, his defensive barriers lowered at the words of his father. His eyes squeezed shut, causing more tears to spill from them, and he took in a shuddering breath as Thranduil pulled him into his chest, holding his son with a parents' love.

"By the Valar," the King thought sadly. "The last time I did this was when his mother died…"

He could feel his own eyes become hot, a mixture of emotions fuelling the fire – that time, all of those years ago when they had both sustained that greatest of losses. The fact that he had not been there for his son the last time he had needed him, a mere three weeks ago. The way in which Legolas, full-grown and wise after his own right, experienced in things that could never be taught to him, warrior of Mirkwood, cried into his chest, so very in need of this physical comfort. He might have been independent, but there were some things that Thranduil could still give him.

Aragorn watched on, a sad smile playing over his lips. It was good that Thranduil was able to help his friend: Aragorn had managed last time, but only just. It had taken wholly selfish pleas to get Legolas to come back to him and finally tell him what irked him to such an extent that he flashed the keen edges of his temper. But this was a different kind of hurt compared to last time, and he knew that there was only one capable of giving the remedy needed to quell this new pain.

'Come on,' Thranduil finally said, drawing away from his son. 'Let us allow the Master Healer to continue with his task.'

Aragorn bowed his head at this, coming back over to Legolas as the King stepped back to permit him full access. The Ranger leant over the table to inspect Legolas' back – and gave a hiss at what he saw. His hands gently touched a livid bruise in the middle of his back and to the right, to which Legolas pulled away at the feather-light touch. Aragorn came round again to his friends' front, an eyebrow arched.

'No more broken bones, eh?'

Legolas smiled guiltily.

'Perhaps just a cracked one, then.'

'More like two cracked ones,' Aragorn contradicted, as he placed his hand back on the inflamed, heated area, making sure that his touch was lighter. He scooped some of his paste out and rubbed it into the interestingly coloured patch of flesh, and then came away again, gathering up a large amount of bandage.

'Do I have to have that on?' Legolas sighed, watching the bandaging as Aragorn unwound it with speedy skilled hands.

'Yes, you do. It will help easy the pain a little.'

As Legolas said nothing more, Aragorn took it for acceptance, and wound the strips securely about his friend's ribs.

TRANSLATIONS

Ion nin - My son


	18. Chapter Eighteen Crossing the Bridge we...

****

Well. Here we are no, not the story at the end. Yes, my friends, this is the final chapter, and, as usual, I'm writing at quarter to twelve at night, with classic fm playing away in the background – I don't know how long that will last for: probably put on some RotK for inspiration fairly soon – they don't tend to play my kind of thing at this time of night. Oh – and I'm missing the rest of Swordfish to write this, so I hope you're all happy…

Any who any how, on with the story! Not overly sure about how this chapter's going to turn out; I'm hoping that it'll write itself like the others have…

OK, the bit up there was written about a week ago, so here's an update. I've finished my exams AS Levels for all of you in England, and I'm in my 12th school year for my American friends.

Profuse apologies for the lateness of this final chapter, and I hope that none of you lost interest while you waited…

Chapter Eighteen – Crossing the Bridge we built

When they arrived back at the Tower, all re-entered the black building – save for Legolas, who still resolutely decided to stay outside, standing quietly away from the entrance, chewing thoughtfully on a chunk of ham that Aragorn had finally cut off for him. So very much had happened to him of late that he was grateful for this temporary lapse in company to mull things over in his mind. He knew what his father was going to say to him, without a doubt…

"_Will you come back home with me, Legolas?"_

He wanted to. He wanted to go home so very achingly much. But he could not. Not even if Ilúvatar himself commanded him to would he go. Why, though? Why was he so determined to pass the opportunity by like a fool? They were on a fool's errand, anyway, so it made sense to just give up now and face his fate – whatever it may be, whether it was live for all eternity, like he was born to do, or die in battle defending the borders of the Woodland Realm – at home.

He might even be able to recover properly back in Mirkwood – he would, doubtlessly, be admitted into the healing wing as soon as they passed through the gates. That was a thought that made him wince; Aragorn had been right, he conceded…

__

'And what, exactly, are you implying about my father's healing chambers?'

'Oh, there is nothing wrong with them at all, mellon nin: save the fact that - and I speak from experience - it is much better to be a visitor than an occupant, as your father's head healer can be merciless when it comes to painful injuries.'

He smiled at the memory: Estel – though Legolas was grudging to acknowledge it – was right about the head healer, an Elf to be well-respected if you wished to come out relatively unscathed from a duration in his healing chambers the next time you were dragged home half-dead by your troop. This was something that had been rather a regular thing during his younger years, when he had commanded with little experience and nearly got all under his charge killed. But he was a competent leader, now; able to direct a body of men wisely, respecting them and in turn receiving that respect back ten fold. He missed going out with the patrols…

His attention snapped back to the present as he heard a great boom coming from inside the Tower, and the ground beneath his feet trembled considerably, stopping after a couple of seconds. He saw a faint cloud of black dust escape the mouth of the Tower, as though the building were an ancient beast of some kind, emitting one last, tired breath.

It was not long before people started to emerge… Éomer and his men came out first, aiding something that looked as though it had been a man, once – although, now all Legolas could see was a bloodied mess that did not even attempt to move its feet as it was manoeuvred carefully down the steps. Legolas felt his heart sink in his chest. Only one out of five, it appeared, had survived, and Legolas sensed that this one was not going to last much longer. He could detect many things that mankind was unable to; pregnancy in women, impending danger, the exact temperament of animals … and approaching death. And this man was going to die, there was no question about that … Legolas' senses were _never_ wrong when it came to this kind of thing, and it would be sooner rather than later. None of this would have happened if he had kept his mouth shut and not pressurised Aragorn into inspecting the forest…

Éomer passed the Elf a half-glance as they went to pass by – and stopped. He faced the Elf fully, and gave a slight incline of his head, which was returned.

'I do not want you to feel that all of this was your fault,' Éomer told Legolas – much to the surprise of the other. He had read the expression in the face of the Elf, something akin to guilt knotting his bruised brow.

'You were right about there being something going on in the forest, and I am sorry for my short-sightedness concerning that situation-' Éomer was finding it difficult to formulate this apology – he _never_ apologised to anyone, nor did he explain himself to any save his King. 'Anyway,' he continued, deciding to give up and just say it: 'it was not your fault that the company was ambushed-' he gave a quick gesture to the man he was propping up '-and this certainly wasn't due to you. I hope that now, perhaps, we can try to understand each other a little better.'

Legolas was taken aback by the sincerity of Éomer's words – but he recovered from his shock and smiled, offering a bow to the other.

'Thank you. I, in turn, apologise for my sharp tongue and for trying to stick an arrow between your eyes. You are right: it would be better for both of us if we were to set aside our differences – there is enough division in this world without allies being aggressive towards each other.'

Éomer bowed himself, gave a quick smile, and indicated to his man that they were to continue walking, and Elf and Man parted with no further words, but with the safe and satisfying knowledge that differences were now settled between them. Éomer still was not overly struck on the Elf, and Legolas not overly struck on the Man, but at least there was no longer any open hostility.

After them came a rather pleased looking Gimli, thumbs tucked into his belt and a pipe hanging in his mouth, smoking away. He came over to his taller companion, enjoying seeing the other wrinkle his nose in displeasure at the smell.

'What are you so smug about?'

'I, Master Elf,' began the Dwarf in as loud a voice as he could muster just a stones' throw away from being a shout, 'have just supervised Gandalf in the collapsing of a certain tunnel, which, without the help of yours truly, he would never have been able to do.'

'Certain tunnel? As in the tunnel full of-' he stopped himself before he said too much and fully resurrected the memory again. 'The tunnel I came in by?' he finished in a quieter voice.

'The very same,' came the proud reply. 'Though to call it a tunnel now would be rather short of the truth.'

'How?'

'Saruman – the foolish old goat – left some black powder where I could find it.'

'What black powder?'

Gimli gave an exaggerated role of his head in disbelief at the other. '_What black_ – only the same stuff he used to blast the hole in the Wall with, Master Elf! A miner's best friend!'

'Gimli, I am hardly a miner,' Legolas reminded his companion, a small frown over his brow. 'I have no familiarity with such things.'

The other heaved a heavy sigh – to Legolas' amusement – at the hopelessness of his friend's knowledge. 'A grainy powder, friend of mine, which, when used correctly and ignited, creates an explosion enough to collapse a whole mountain, it is so powerful.'

Legolas could only think of the corpses in the tunnel, that vision of the one that he had been forced to jump over the most prominent in his mind. He had despised it down there, a loathing that he had never felt before for anything, and that was really saying something, with the amount of horrors that he had seen during his millennia. But it was the thought of all of those bodies being crushed that made him shudder like he did.

His father, Aragorn and the others came out next, Gandalf pausing before the door before passing down the steps himself.

'I think that we all have had enough of this Tower and its inhabitants for a considerable amount of time,' the wizard passed to the group, and he hovered his staff over the doorway, apparently sealing it. It was almost a therapeutic action for Legolas – it felt as though it was all truly over; no more pain or suffering, with the pair that he now deemed as his greatest enemies locked in the mass of carven black stone with no way out.

The group progressed to the walls of Isengard, various Elves whistling to their horses to come to them – including the King, who mounted his stallion and shouted out the order that they were to ride for Mirkwood as soon as possible.

'Will you not come back to Edoras, my Lord Thranduil?'

'No. Thank you, Lord Éomer, but we must get back to the kingdom as soon as we can: we are needed.

'Will you come back home with me, Legolas?'

Those words, which he had so accurately predicted, jarred Legolas' soul all the same. To go home would be wonderful; just to sleep in his own bed, get the rest that his body urged him to get, to take command of his patrols again as captain…

Legolas looked up into the hopeful eyes of his father.

'I am sorry, Adar – my King – I cannot; I have sworn an oath to carry this through, and by the grace of the Valar or no, I will do it.'

Thranduil studied the face of his child intensely – an action that caused his son to lower his head. The King cupped Legolas' chin, forcing him to look him in the eye again.

'You have your mother's spirit, Legolas – do not apologise for that, ion nin.'

He smiled at the single tear that tumbled down the cheek of his son, and wiped it away with his thumb.

'Swear another oath for me, will you, Legolas?'

'Yes, Adar?'

'Promise me that you will come home in one piece at the end of this.'

Legolas smiled, laughing quietly. 'I swear it.'

Thranduil patted Legolas' face lightly with his hand before he whispered to his horse, and the entire host began to pass out of the gates, leaving the mixture of races behind them.

Aragorn glanced over to his best friend as he raised his hand and placed it over his heart in the Elven fashion, extending it out, uttering: 'Namárië, Adar,' and then turning to them as the last soldiers left the grounds of Isengard.

By a conscious act or no, Aragorn, Gimli, Gandalf, Merry and Pippin were stood together, the remainder of the fragmented Fellowship of the Ring – it felt as though they were waiting for their Elven member to join them, and he smiled as he walked over to them…

__

Six out of nine, he thought. _Perhaps there is some hope after all. Perhaps…_

The black spear that was Isengard slowly diminished in size behind them, little more than needle against the blue of the sky as their horses made their speedy coverage over the land of Rohan. Thranduil could not help but look back at it constantly, gyrating his head so frequently that it was beginning to irritate Lord Daerahil.

'Thranduil,' he alerted his King as he turned about for what must have been the fiftieth time. 'If you continue to do that, I shall personally cut off your head and put it back on your shoulders backwards!'

'Sorry,' came the reply, Thranduil's brow raised. 'I'd hate to annoy you.'

'I know that you miss him,' Daerahil offered, all seriousness returned to his voice, 'but turning round and looking back will not bring him to your side.

Thranduil sighed at this matter-of-fact, blunt analysis. 'I know. I just wish he had chosen differently through all of his stubbornness.'

'Yes – well, reminds you of someone, does he not?'

Thranduil turned confused eyes upon his childhood friend. 'His mother, yes, but there is something to your tone, mellon nin, that suggests to me that you speak not of her.'

'No, not the Queen,' Daerahil smiled. '_You_.'

The King straightened his back, lifting his head to try and make himself tall and indifferent to anything Daerahil tried to suggest, eyes facing dead ahead in a mocking fashion.

'I know not what you mean.'

Éomer's men had set up a watch between themselves, their eyes wide and attentive: no-one wished for a repeat of past events, though whether or not that kind of thing was likely to occur again was unlikely, so to speak…

Darkness enveloped the camp in the small glen, numerous tents now occupied with sleepers whom had passed from the side of the fire to go to their sleeping mats. Only two now remained before the fire, both tired to a degree, but not wishing to give up to dreams just yet.

Aragorn wondered what had happened with his Elven friend down in the dungeons of Orthanc, that was true enough, though he had absolutely no intention of asking. To ask would not be fair: if Legolas wished to tell him, then he would: but until the Elf chose to disclose this information – if he ever did – then Aragorn was willing to wait.

Legolas was both physically and mentally exhausted, Aragorn could tell, despite the fact that there was not a hope in Arda of the Elf admitting to such a thing. But it was in his face … his eyes were dark and heavy, and his skin was still too pale for Aragorn's liking. Far too pale. His captivity had done absolutely nothing for the Elf's healing abilities, which was clear enough. Why had he not gone home with his father when he had had the chance? The Ranger doubted very much that the company of the King would not rest for a time in Imladris; with the healing skills of Lord Elrond to push him back to full health, Legolas, he was sure, would be well again far sooner than if he were to stay out in the Wild.

'You should have gone back with him, Legolas,' he said softly.

A pair of blue eyes lifted to his grey ones, accompanied by a quiet: 'I know. But I have a duty.'

'A duty? Really? And what would that "duty" entail, O Elven Prince?'

'To see that you do not get yourself killed, Master Aragorn – and please don't call me that.'

The first part of the answer had sounded well-humoured, but the second half had held a certain tang to it which persuaded Aragorn to set a mental reminder never indeed to use Legolas' title in such a manner again. Why Legolas should be slightly testy about this he had no idea, but he deemed it unwise to ask.

'How do you feel?' Aragorn gave the fire a small poke with a stick, watching the flames flare temporarily in a dance of orange.

'Decidedly better than when I was in the Tower,' came the response.

'Really? You do not look it – you are still too pale for my liking.'

'Well, thank you for saying what you really think – I am alright, Aragorn!'

A dark eyebrow was raised at this, a mischievous twinkle dancing in the eyes.

'The last time you were "alright", you had a gaping hole in your gut – I think that we need to run through your definition of "alright."'

Legolas emitted a soft chuckle at this. 'Yes, well,' he retorted, 'you still look terrible.'

Aragorn glowered at this: he had bathed since then – several times, in fact, and he had also mended his clothes. And this was coming from Legolas of all people, whose appearance at the moment resembled that of a tall, blond street urchin!

'Prissy Elf.'

'Filthy Human.'

This pointless banter and exchange of insults did the pair of them the world of good, forgetting for a time all of the happenings of the past few weeks with the course of light teasing.

'Seriously, though,' said Aragorn, though he still smiled, going back to the original topic with all severity reinstalled in his voice, 'you look tired: did you sleep at all when I told you to before we left Isengard? In fact, did you even try?'

'Yes.'

Aragorn saw a flash of intense pain wash over the Elf's face, and his smile faded away, being replaced by a furrowed brow of deep concern.

'Legolas? What's wrong?'

Legolas met Aragorn's gaze swiftly with clearly glassy eyes, though he had adopted an unnatural smile which quivered under the weight of the lack of authenticity.

'Nothing, mellon nin. Just a dream. That is all.'

Legolas took out a knife and whetting stone, which he placed between his knees, and commenced with sharpening his weapon, deliberately avoiding the gaze of the other, knowing exactly what the look the Man bore was.

Aragorn took out a water-skin and proceeded in emptying the contents down his throat, and making a show of it, trying hard to grasp the Elf's attention. And if he knew Legolas, then his interest would indeed be sparked.

Sure enough: 'You have wine!'

'Correction, dear friend: I _had_ wine.'

Aragorn smirked as he tipped the skin upside down, not a drip emerging from it. He knew that the Elf was sure to smell it, and laughed at the consternation on his friend's face at the complete consumption of the beverage without him tasting any. It was a taste that Legolas had inherited from his father, his incredible love of wine. More often than not, when in a tavern, Legolas would drink only wine if he could get it, or have nothing at all, no matter how long the journey had been.

'I have something else for you.' With that, Aragorn tossed a full skin to his companion, who eyed it suspiciously.

'What is this?'

'Try some – no one else in their right mind would drink this: I hope it is to your liking…'

Legolas unscrewed the cap, keeping an apprehensive eye upon his friend as though he expected stagnant water – and give out a surprised cry at what he found the contents to be. He gave Aragorn a broad smile, an expression that made him look less ill and more like his usual self.

'Where did you get this?'

'I went out earlier and got the ingredients,' he replied simply. 'Go on, drink it!'

Legolas did so, and gladly. It was a tea that he was particularly fond of, though if Aragorn knew why then his mother had been a cave troll. It was a mixture of wild mint and Wolf's-claw root with a drop of honey, something which Aragorn was yet to find someone else besides Legolas who could stomach it and say that it was the best thing they had ever tasted. It had been Legolas' favourite for as long as the Ranger had known him, and was always Legolas' way of calming down whenever he was particularly stressed. Indeed, Aragorn took special delight in seeing the Elf slouch down a little against the log he was leaning against as he relaxed fully.

The skin was soon drained, with a complementary: 'I commend your efforts, mellon nin – though a little more honey would have been appreciated,' he added playfully, only to nearly have his head batted from his shoulders by a sweeping action from Aragorn's hand, at which the Elf laughed openly.

When he had calmed down a little, Legolas leant back against the log again.

'Now will you go to sleep, O Stubborn One?'

Legolas gave Aragorn a look of you-cannot-be-serious from beneath his brows.

'Please, Legolas – you are still far too pale: you need a good sleep to help set yourself back to rights.'

The prince cocked his head like a curious bird before asking: 'Did Lord Elrond teach you to behave like a mother hen, or did you acquire that one on your own?'

'It's a gift.'

The Elf laid his cloak over the ground, resting his head on his good arm for a pillow, his back turned – to be honest, Aragorn had expected more resistance than this. He shook his head sadly at his companion, his best friend. He was in such a condition because he had given himself up in order to save his friends, an act of selflessness that Aragorn had never expected from him or wanted, but was grateful for all the same. He shook his head slowly.

'What will it take to stop you from doing this, Legolas?' he asked quietly, not really expecting a response.

'All the riches the children of Ilúvatar have to give could not stop me from following you, Estel.'

Aragorn watched as the rise and fall of the Elf's chest became more steady and slow, a tear falling from his eye.

'I know.'

TRANSLATIONS

Mellon nin – my friend

Adar – Father

Estel – Aragorn's Elven name, meaning 'Hope'

Ion nin – my son

****

Well, my friends, here we come to the end of this journey. I hope you all liked it, and that you like my future works, which I shall be posting in the near future, all being well…

Gracious thanks to all reviewers and readers alike – if I didn't have my reviewers to boost me into action when they demanded the next chapters, this would never have been finished by now – about four months in the making. So, yeah, again, many, many thanks to you all wow – loads of comers in there.

Oh, and just sos you knows, Wolf'-claw root is a made-up version of ginger – it was going to be ginger, but then I thought about it, and it turns out that ginger is actually grown in Japan, so there wasn't a hope in Hell of Aragorn getting his mitts on any. I actually _made_ this tea, by the way, and can I just say that it is truly VILE, just to warn you – although, if you want to, you can make it … as I said, I'm warning you.

Right, next in the works is my gap-filler not The Ebb of the Tide, a different one and my assassin fic, which looks set to be on a bigger scale than this one, God bidding.

Hannon le, mellon nin – Namárië!


End file.
